


Augmented Histrionics

by Sweetenerdn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, Child Neglect, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Potions, Sleep Deprivation, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:40:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 47,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24961687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetenerdn/pseuds/Sweetenerdn
Summary: Harry Potter had known Draco Malfoy for too long; he had known the snarky, snobbish, haughty, all-around awful elitist that was his schoolboy rival for seven years. But why, when Harry wanted normalcy, the blond git decided to drastically decide he’s not the git that Harry always known him for?The blond git always complicate things, doesn’t he?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Pansy Parkinson, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 35
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is an 8th yr fic because nobody cant get enough of them. & quite obviously, snape and dumbledore are alive, the usual cliche.

The Potion Master's proposition was met with silence.

Severus Snape barely concealed his disdainful sneer before the whole teaching staff. _As expected_ , Severus thought bitterly. The very person behind this preposterous ' _Inter-House Cooperation_ ' would fail to see the brilliance behind his very own suggestion. Severus stared at Dumbledore, the only indicative of his impatience was the sharp raised eyebrow and the thinning of his lips. Albus sighed heavily.

"Forgive me, Severus," Albus said after a few minutes. "I know that you mean well, but is this not a bit counterproductive?"

"Counterproductive?" Severus silkily said, his lips slightly curling. "Of course you would thought it that way. But if you stop to think for a moment," he drawled, narrowed dark eyes sweeping over the long table of warily skeptical faces of the Hogwarts teaching staff, "this would be advantageous to the 'House cooperation' cause."

"Advantageous?" Minerva asked, her usually grim face slightly pinched in confusion. "I fail to see how this would be of any advantage. The potion could augment... certain emotions that might prove... destructive to both parties."

"Well, I did not say that both the parties would consume the same potion, did I?" Severus said, his eyes glinting happily—or as happy as Severus Snape could get. Albus stared at the Potions Master in appraisal, the twinkle in his eyes is back.

"Pray tell, Severus, what you have in mind."

"Both the pair will be drinking _Histrionicus_ Potion—but each of them is of different variation," Severus dramatically paused, "while _Augmentare Histrionicus_ increased the intensity of the drinker's emotions, the other variety, the _Sedatus Histrionicus_ , will be consumed by the other pair to somehow act as the _mediator_ for the both of them."

Just by the looks of glee and intrigue from the teaching staff, Severus knew his proposition had been allowed. The curl of his lips showed dark enthusiasm.

* * *

Harry was awake before everyone else in the Eighth year boys dorm. The sun had barely peeked out of the horizon, engulfing the whole room in a twilight gloom. Harry supposed it's too early to rise but he had not gotten a wink of sleep the whole night before and sleep would not appear anytime sooner. With a weary sigh, he got out of the silky sheets of Gryffindor red and padded silently towards the bathroom.

Harry had long forgotten the last time he had had a nice sleep—if he could even sleep at all. All the nights consist of fitful slumber and waking up drenched in sweat, his silky blankets tightly wound around his trembling body, the remnants of a disturbing nightmare still fresh behind his eyelids. He found himself sometimes afraid of closing his eyes, because when he does, the vivid projections of the Battle played in his mind like a lucid reality.

It was incessantly becoming a new normal. The teachers couldn't fault the students if they saw some roaming after curfew, or sneaking into the kitchen for a cup of hot chocolate. It might sound disturbing to think that people in Hogwarts were used to some students breaking down in the middle of the class or having a sudden fit whenever gallivanting certain parts of the castle. The lively atmosphere in the Great Hall every meal was now swept with a brooding and subdued silence.

There wasn't much to do about their melancholic situation. Dumbledore appointed Mind Healers to check up on the students, and every students were required to meet for therapy every once in a week since term started. McGonagall and Hooch decided to implement Friendly Quidditch matches every Saturdays for the students' recreational activity and the 7th and 8th years are permitted to go to Hogsmeade every night until curfew.

But even if they busied themselves into extra activities on top of school works, the battle scars don't heal over night. They were just children fresh out of war, and even after five months since the historical Battle of Hogwarts, trauma is bound to haunt them whether they close their eyes or bustle themselves.

Harry spent almost two hours under the relaxing spray of the shower. He need not to worry about the remaining hot water since he's the only one who use the bathroom every morning, his roommates always ended up sleeping in. Probably due to exhausting activities late night or lying awake until the dawn broke.

Ron was already up and dressed when Harry stepped out of their bathroom.

"Okay, mate?" Ron beamed, smiling more enthusiastically for Monday morning. His drooping eyes and tensed shoulders told Harry he too did not get a good night sleep. Or if he ever slept at all.

Ron had a relatively welcoming change after the War. Aside from the added firm muscles on his physique that he had acquired on his daily work-out (his chosen recreation), Ron became less grumpy and more tolerant and understanding. He even indulged Hermione on her nightly library session (her chosen recreation, _of course_ ) instead of his usual grouching and went as far as to work on his own essays without her behests.

Harry nodded, "shouldn't we wake them up?" he asked, gesturing to the rest of their still snoring dorm mates.

"Seamus threw me a pillow straight to my face when I tried," Ron shrugged. With that, they proceed to walk out of the dorm at Neville's sleepy inarticulate mumbles.

At the joined common room of the eighth years, Hermione sat in one of the couches with a book in her lap. When she saw them walking to her, she met them halfway and flung herself to Harry before planting a chaste kiss on Ron's cheek.

Harry let her cling to him sometimes, hugging him in the morning and kissing his forehead to sleep, even if they had been together for most of the day. After the war, Hermione comforted herself by constantly checking in Harry and Ron, fretting over their food and clothes and assignments, showing her affections in an overt, and sometimes vocal way, much to Ron's amusement. But even with her constant fussing, Hermione became more lenient and mellowed out. She wasn't so stern at her commands to work on their essays on time and let the boys have time for Wizard's chess and Exploding Snap. She even join them sometimes if she's in an even better mood.

"I was so tired yesterday that I forgot to finish my Herbology essay due Thursday," she huffed in annoyance. They made their way out of the Common Room. "I was supposed to finish it up but then I was caught up with—"

_"The Memoirs of Saturnine the Villain_?" both Harry and Ron chorused predictably, sharing a knowing look over Hermione's head. She stared at them with a slightly miffed expression.

"Yes," she rolled her eyes, "but you cannot fault me as I am becoming guiltily obsessed with the series! I am ought to revise for NEWT's but I haven't started on it yet since I purchased the cursed books!"

"No one is faulting you Hermione," Ron placated, chuckling at Hermione's slightly troubled look. "And NEWT's is months away! You could do with a bit of recreational reading."

"My chosen recreational activity for this month is going to the library. I can't have two for a month; that destroys the purpose!" Hermione protested.

"That's your recreational activity for almost seven years now," Harry piped. At Hermione's deadpan, he rolled his eyes. "You could be in the library and read _Saturnine's Memoirs_ at the same time, that wouldn't destroy the purpose."

The chosen recreational activity for each student is proposed for their assigned Mind Healer. Since it supposed to change every month, they are to record any changes they felt, whether physically, mentally and emotionally, while performing their chosen activity.

"Besides, you would be surprised who deigned to share your love for dear ol' Saturnine," Ron said as they sat at the Gryffindor Table, waiting for the rest of the students as it's still ten minutes away before breakfast starts.

At Hermione's curious eyes, Harry theatrically clears his throat and assumes a pretentious voice, "... _For in this agonizing affair of hearts lain in line, you have every bit of mine. I'll have you know I am but a coward, and in this corrosive constellation of bitter words and jagged past, your heart is everything but marred._ "

There was a shocked silence in their area, as people start to fill in the Great Hall. Ron was looking at him in amusement, while Hermione...

"You have my favorite line memorized!" Hermione gasped in disbelief. "And it's your chosen recreational activity! That's unbelievable."

Harry gasped in mock offended, "what's so unbelievable about having to read some books every once in a while?" Ron chortled at that.

"I meant to say you were chastising me for purchasing the books _before_ when you were also guiltily indulging yourself, you hypocrite," Hermione gently admonished, but shook her head at Harry in astonishment.

"Well, when Luna forced me to read the first book, I was automatically stolen by the woeful, poetic git," Harry chuckled, thinking about the day right after the war, when Luna had gifted him _The First Memoir_ to "distract him of Wrackspurts". Albeit skeptical, the first line of the book had him immediately reading the first book of the series in less than twenty-four hours. Harry had never stopped thanking Luna for introducing him to such great a masterpiece.

_The Memoirs of Saturnine the Villain_ were, obviously, just Saturnine's compiled memoirs from his ancient diary. He was the greatest tyrant in the fictional universe of _Nirvana_ , a place where different species (angels, devils, vampires, werewolves, demigods, faeries, mermaids, etc.) from different dimensions co-exist together under the Social Treaty. Saturnine is a Death Lord of a Higher Deity that is spiteful in nature, evil and downright bigoted who wanted to destroy the Social Treaty so that Nirvana would be under his regime and subsequently lord over the remaining dimensions.

A prophesied hero, a demigod of the lowest kind, Warden the Illustrious, came to destroy Saturnine's pursuits of reigning over the universe. But during the fateful face-off, there was a red string of fate that connected his heart to Warden, which the Illustrious had cut off mercilessly. Since then, Saturnine forgot his plans to take over Nirvana and pursue the hard-hearted Warden instead, which the hero always turn down. Hence, the morose poetry.

_The Memoirs of Saturnine the Villain_ was periodically published two years ago, in their fifth year, and had recently gained fame after the latest book, the sixth of the installment, was released quite coincidentally a month after the war, which also featured the war between Saturnine and the demigods' dimension. Nobody ever knew who the writer was, who chose to remain anonymous.

"Do you wanna know who else was taken by Saturnine's depressing memoir?" Harry asked, as Neville, Dean and Seamus sat in their places beside the Golden Trio, still quite disgruntled and sleep-addled.

"Who?" Hermione asked eagerly.

"McGee."

Seamus fell off the bench, apparently awake to catch on that bit of news, clutching his stomach in his rancorous laughters that echoed in the now speculative silence of the Great Hall. Ron's face was red, very much disconcerted at the thought of their very stern Professor fawning over Saturnine's forlorn lines. Hermione only gaped at him.

"You're kidding, right?" Dean scoffed, helping Seamus back to his seat. "McGonagall reading an angsty homo-erotic memoir of a psycho with unresolved sexual tension with a newly out of youth boy hundreds of years his junior?" Harry shrugged.

"I saw it in her table last night when I came to visit her. It was apparently a complete set."

"I can understand about McGonagall. I mean, she probably needs some steamy—" Ron shrieked when Hermione pinch his side. "But imagine if the overgrown dungeon bat reads it in his lonely, desolate nights..."

At that, Neville accidentally spat his pumpkin juice at Parvati's face.

* * *

"What do you reckon the slimy git has for us this time?" Ron asked as the three of them walked to the cold Dungeon corridors.

"Remember what we brewed last week? It was particularly nasty. This time would probably be worse," Harry replied, as they turned the corner leading to the Potions classroom. The small number of Slytherins already stood outside.

Their decrepit population was mostly due to the War. Because of the majority of them, and their families, being Death Eaters or were just involved with the wrong sorts even before, it wasn't really a surprise that more than half of the House had decided to flee the Slytherin hostility of the whole Wizardry. Though, Harry thought, those who decided to come back for 8th year were just as surprising; Zabini, Greengrass, Parkinson, Nott, Bulstrode, and of course, Malfoy.

"That overgrown bat definitely out to get us. He probably has some kind of sadistic streak to make all of us fail or embarrass ourselves," Ron grumbled. The three of them stopped a few feet away from door to the classroom and the congregation of Slytherins.

"Oh shut up, Ronald!" Hermione rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't really fail or embarrass yourself if you'll learn, for once in your life, to open your notes beforehand."

"Study? Potions?" Ron snorted incredulously. "Yeah, I would when Snape concoct a potion to make his hair less greasy."

Hermione shook her head at him. Harry snickered before pulling up _The Memoirs of Saturnine the Villain: Book 6_ to his face and resumed reading. Only did he hear a loud familiar shrilly gasp that he stopped again to turn to the sound.

It came from the Slytherins.

Or from Parkinson, who was outright gaping at him.

"Is that _Saturnine the Villain_?" She asked disbelievingly.

" _The Memoirs of Saturnine the Villain_ , technically, but yeah," Harry immediately said, although it's due to the fact that he was shocked to be addressed directly by the people who once bullied them but now became recluse and oddly subdued. Then he immediately felt defensive, "is their something wrong with that?"

The five Slytherins all shared a knowing, quite mysterious look and collectively turned to Malfoy expectantly, who stayed staring at the wall in front of them. Even the Gryffindors all expected him to say something snarky or condescendingly laugh at Harry's face for being such a sappy, hopeless romantic but he remained staring at the wall unseeingly. Zabini cleared his throat.

"Uh, Draco?"

At that, Malfoy turned to him, his eyes bored and impassive. "What?"

"Potter is reading _Saturnine the Villain_ ," Zabini said as if Malfoy was being an idiot and couldn't get the whole concept. Malfoy turned to Harry and made a noncommittal sound before turning back to staring at the wall.

Harry had barely hide a gasp.

He knew Malfoy had definitely changed since the war. Ever since the term started, Malfoy had barely made any interaction with Harry, let alone an eye contact aside from the first and last time they accidentally looked at each other at the Start of the term banquet. Harry had not heard of his voice, and Draco had not intentionally bumped into him in the corridors and looked (or glared) at Harry's way in class since the start of the year, as what he was inclined to do before. Malfoy seemed to be blending in the background instead of putting himself on the spotlight like he always does, crouching in his seat as if wanting to disappear out of view, or casting his eyes down as if desperately wanting to not bring attention to himself.

It was like a new Malfoy had come back. A reclusive, subdued, and passive Malfoy, not the snarky, snobbish, haughty, all-around awful elitist schoolboy rival that Harry knew for seven years. And that Malfoy had passed on to insult him with his choices of books was horrifyingly surprising to say the least.

Before anyone of them could properly react, the Potion Professor came in his billowing robes. There wasn't a verbal command to enter, only the sharp dark eyes of the Potions Master had the Gryffindors and Slytherins scurrying to get inside the classroom.

Harry stared at the back of Malfoy's head, and wonder to himself why, at that exact moment he wanted his arch rival (the snarky, snobbish all-around arch rival; not this oddly lifeless version of him) to turn his head, sneer at him and say an insult or two about his hair.

* * *

"For this morning we will be discussing about the two variations of _Histrionicus_ potion for your term project," Snape drawled, flicking his wand at the board as the ingredients and processes materialized.

The class stared at what's written on the board. Harry knew nobody in the class knows a single thing about this kind of potion, and not just because his range of knowledge regarding this subject is limited to elementary level antidotes, but because the same confusion on his face is mirrored on everyone else's. Harry was even surprised to see Hermione's confusion, mingled with horror at not knowing this particular potion, since it's very rare, if not never, that Hermione found herself clueless about a single thing.

"Do any of you has idea about this potion? No one?" Snape said silkily, the enthusiasm in his eyes prominent upon seeing the confusion on everyone's faces and not seeing Hermione's hand in the air. "Of course, you would not know this particular potion as this is not in your Advance Potions textbook... yet."

Snape's voice became soft for his next words, but the smug and pride on his tone were evident, "because this is a potion that I, on my own, devised. The two variations of the _Histrionicus_ potion that you will need to be brewing for your project will be the _Augmentare Histrionicus_ and _Sedatus Histrionicus_.

" _Augmentare Histrionicus_ amplifies the emotion that the brewer is feeling during the preparation. _Sedatus Histrionicus_ , on the other hand, does the opposite, of course, tranquilize the emotions of the _other_ brewer," Snape paused, narrowed beady eyes sweeping over the students. "Suffice it to say, you will be paired off with another student since _Augmentare Histrionicus_ is one of the core ingredients for _Sedatus Histrionicus_ ; both the potion will work efficiently with the aid of the other."

"Why am I having an uneasy feeling about this?" Ron muttered in an undertone. Hermione silenced him before Snape can hear and take House points.

There was a muted noise in the classroom as students began choosing their partners, before Snape shut down everyone's ideas, "I will be choosing your partners since this will be a part of Inter-House cooperation activity." That had everyone silently grumbling before the Professor snapped. "Since this is your term project, this will affect a large portion of your grade. I will not think twice to give you an automatic T if you will not cooperate with your designated partners.

"You will meet two times for each week for the next three weeks, both of you will take turns to drink the potion of your choosing, and you will record, in details, your experiences both personally and the effects of the potions in the relationship with your partner."

_This is ridiculous_ , Harry thought bitterly as he listened to Snape declaring the first pair: Zabini and Ron. Ron, unsurprisingly, gasped in disbelief. When he continued to grumble in protest, Snape took 10 points off Gryffindor and that had Hermione pinching Ron on the side. Ron moaned in despair, getting up and practically dragging his body to Zabini's area. The dark-skinned boy stared at the red head, quite uninterested, but the curl of his lips pronounced disgust.

There were only six Slytherins and eight Gryffindors, so Harry adamantly hope he would not be paired with the person he thought he would.

"Malfoy. Potter."

_But of course, this is Snape_. He seemed to find pleasure in tormenting Harry. And what other ways this slimy git would get his daily dose of sadistic streak, as what Ron dubbed it, than Harry being paired with Malfoy to do a potion that _amplifies_ emotions? Snape must be looking forward to either of them blowing their cauldrons or blasting their heads off.

With a groan and a million expletives in his head, he walked over to Malfoy's area.

It was then, belatedly, that he realized what was missing. It was Malfoy's usual snide remarks, a protest at being partnered with Harry on Potions or a jab on Harry's potion-making skills.

As Harry stared at Malfoy's side profile expectantly, waiting for him to sneer at his way, Harry thought it was not forthcoming. There will be no verbal disputes between them, just like there was no Malfoy intentionally bumping him on the corridor just to get a rise out of him since the start of term.

And Harry felt wrong-footed. _This was not normal_ , him and Malfoy not being awful at each other is definitely not you can call normal. And this is becoming bothersome. At least for Harry's part.

Malfoy continued writing the ingredients and processes of both potions on his parchment, not acknowledging Harry's presence as if it were something not worth overreacting for (at least for the dramatic git's part). He just continued... writing.

"Will you start collecting the ingredients or keep on staring at me the whole time?"

Harry almost jump, and he realized it must've been weird and creepy outright staring at his own nemesis and wondering why in buggering hell can't he get this year normal.

When Harry went to get the ingredients, he was thinking how he _badly_ needed Draco Malfoy's sneers, jeers of contempt, condescending grey eyes, and his awful mouth sputtering his usual awful tirades. Because those were _normal_.

And after all, this is what Harry came back for: to find normalcy.

But why couldn't Malfoy give it to him?

The blond git always complicates things, doesn't he?

* * *

It was not Hermione's decision to come back. It was Harry's.

After the War, and all the Death Eater trials and Hogwarts reparations that came with it, there were endless opportunities that awaited the Golden Trio. Because they had hugely contributed to the defeat of Voldemort, Harry and Ron were both invited to join the Auror Academy; Hermione was offered apprenticeships for some Ministry positions and had manage to apply for scholarships in few of Wizarding Universities across the continent. When Harry had ranted about all the paperworks and Ministry galas and all the fund-raising events that being an adult—and an adult who defeated Voldemort and was hailed "the Savior of Wizarding World" to be specific—entailed, Hermione immediately dropped all the potential Ministry trainings and scholarships without second thoughts and contacted Headmaster Dumbledore. Ron, to his relief, also supported the idea of normalcy Hogwarts could offer and encouraged the three of them to attend the so-called Eighth year.

Really, Harry could just do with some kind of normal. Ever since he was eleven, he had been caught in-between life and death situations, had been tortured, had seen countless death at a young age, and literally died and came back to life. His childhood and adolescent life was filled with sordid death, evil Dark Wizards, a more evil, psychopathic Dark Lord on his tail wanting him dead. And now that he's eighteen, he felt like he had not lived his life to the fullest, even if he did saved the whole world. He was not given a time to live like his age, to enjoy the freedom of being a child and being free of all the pressures involved in being adult. After the War, he was instinctively thrusted into the adult life and he honestly felt pressured.

Eighth year sounds promising. Being in Hogwarts, even if it was a place of the war and countless death, was after all Harry's home. He just wanted to be normal, just for one year. He wanted to figure out his life first, to be just a child for one last time, to not be molded by the expectations of the Wizarding world, who intermittently betrayed and demonized him for years. Eight year sounds about right.

Harry, Ron and Hermione were once again situated in their usual space in the Library, tons of books surrounding their table area. Harry stared at his Transfiguration essay, a badly-written one, and groaned. He placed his head in his hands and wondered, not for the first time, how it would be if he didn't come back. Maybe he wouldn't be in the Auror Academy, maybe he would brood his entire summer, or life, in solitude in Grimmauld Place, or maybe he'd waste away his life in Muggle London, away from the aggravating paparazzis and the sodding Daily Prophet who made it their life-goal to write silly scuttlebutts about him.

_Who am I kidding?_ For the life of him, he wouldn't even dare trade this temporary sense of security and freedom for the world. He desperately asked for normalcy, and maybe a ten feet or so of Transfiguration essay was part of the package.

Harry stared at the innocuous book on top of his Defense and Charms textbooks. He stared longingly at it, battling in his mind if re-reading the sixth installment of _The Memoirs of Saturnine the Villain_ would be worth indulging in than his Transfiguration assignment. Oh, well.

"Ehem."

Harry faced Hermione, his hand hovering over the book and looking like a guilty child with his hand inside a cookie jar. Hermione pursed his lips and Harry sheepishly grinned.

"I'm..." he trailed off in the face of Hermione's knowing expression. "I'm distracted and I can't do my assignment when I do, you know."

Hermione pursed his lips some more, eerily looking like a combination of Molly Weasley and McGonagall's stern expressions. Ron raised his head from his crouching. He frowned at the book on Harry's hand.

"Mate! You've been re-reading that for what? Two months already!" Ron exclaimed. Hermione tutted at him.

"Ronald! Don't shame us for reading the same book all over again. It's Harry's chosen recreation," she added, "besides, the author haven't published the last book yet. We have been waiting for five months already."

Harry nodded, albeit guiltily. Aside from waiting impatiently for the seventh book to be published, Harry's re-reading of the sixth book felt cathartic and therapeutic to him. It was no denying that the War of the Worlds in _The Memoirs of Saturnine the Villain_ was eerily reminiscent of the Battle of Hogwarts, and it didn't help that it was published just a month after the Second Wizarding War. Reading it Harry felt clinical and detached from his emotions, and he can view the war in a different, more colorful and fictional perspective without having to deal with unnecessarily reminiscing painful memories.

As Harry read through most of Chapter 13, the day when Warden the Illustrious planned the fateful face off for the second time with Saturnine, Harry could feel the prickling feeling at the side of his face.

He looked up only to meet impassive eyes staring at him.

Malfoy sat with the Slytherins three tables over, but even through the distance, Harry could feel Malfoy's frigid eyes boring through his soul. It felt like Legilemancy, but instead of pulling and diving through his memories, Malfoy's expressionless eyes reached his soul.

Harry wanted to see the scornful expression, the haughty and disdain in Malfoy's eyes. But all Harry could see was icy barrier. And that, in itself was very troubling.

"...Harry?"

The staring contest between Malfoy and him was cut off when a face with a long red hair came into his view. He almost jump away at the nearness of Ginny Weasley's face.

"U-um, hey Ginny!" Harry greeted, a smile forcefully stretching his lips. Ginny frowned at him.

"I was repeatedly calling you. What are you even staring—" she turned to the direction Harry was initially paying all his attention to. Immediately her face fell sour. "Malfoy? Why are you staring at the evil git?"

Harry scrambled for something, _anything_ , to say. "Er... There was something we need to do."

Ginny frowned even more, "need to do? What would you be doing with Malfoy, of all people."

"Um. Potions partner. You know, Inter-House Cooperation," Harry stood up, both Hermione and Ron stared at both him and Ginny, frowning. Harry collected his things. "I'll be... going then."

"Harry wait," Ginny said, holding his wrist. "Do you have some time tomorrow? I'll be—"

"I'm sorry, Gin," Harry cut her off, feeling awful at the look on her face. "We'll be busy with our potion. Maybe next time."

Before she could reply, he turned on his feet and walk away... towards Malfoy.

"Malfoy."

Five of the Slytherins stopped snickering and collectively looked up at Harry by their table, albeit with different expressions. Bulstrode can't hide the disgust on her face and Nott was glaring daggers at him. It was Parkinson who faked a cough and politely inclined her head.

"Potter," she said, her tone conveying how inconvenient it is of him to loom over their table. Harry stared resolutely at Malfoy's head, who was still reading his book as if there wasn't anything unusual going on.

"Malfoy," Harry called again. "We were supposed to brew the potion this evening."

Malfoy raised his head, and Harry can't get over the feeling of disorientation when he looked at those dull, grey eyes. They were once full of haughtiness that Harry once despised.

"I thought it was supposed to be tomorrow?" Malfoy deadpanned, and even his voice, Harry morosely noted, had lost its once condescending drawl.

Everything about Malfoy is dull and empty and it annoyed Harry.

Malfoy is supposed to use this as an opportunity to mock Harry of his _dismal comprehension skills_. But Malfoy merely stared at him impassively.

"Well, I want to brew it right now," Harry almost snapped. Parkinson tutted at him.

"So demanding, aren't we?" She sneered at him but Harry ignored her.

Malfoy stared at Harry unnervingly until he... acquiesced, standing up and collecting his things.

_Just like that?!_ Harry was looking forward to the blond putting up a fight because he was such a prat until they would snap at each other, insulting and jabbing and raising their voices, before Madam Pince would kick their asses out of the library, and then they would throw hexes at each other in the corridor.

Not.. this. This is definitely _not_ normal. Not in Harry and Malfoy's dictionary anyway.

They stopped just outside the library, Malfoy stared straight ahead the empty corridor and Harry stared intently at Malfoy's side profile. Harry couldn't deny the fact that Malfoy had grown out of his aristocratic, ferrety sharpness. Of course, Malfoy still had the high cheekbones and jaws that could cut and long, aristocratic nose but his face was just on the right side of sharpness brought on by maturity. Without the haughty sneers and his head being held so cockily high, Malfoy's features were... elegant, with a touch of masculinity and softness. It was odd.

And more importantly, why was Harry staring?

"Where do you think we'd brew the potion?" Harry asked before the awkward silence could get any worse. To his surprise, Malfoy only shrug his sharp shoulders. "What can you suggest?" Again, another shrug. It's starting to really piss Harry off. "The Room of Requirements, then."

Harry marched ahead, not caring if Malfoy would deign to follow him or not. _Maybe his annoyingly docile and strangely pliant ass would._ Judging by the soft steps behind him, he was. And Harry internally growled in frustration.

Why was Malfoy being difficult?

Not technically difficult since he's not doing anything Malfoy-like. But that's the thing, Harry's world suddenly felt wrong when Malfoy is not being the snarky, snobbish, haughty, all-around awful elitist schoolboy rival that Harry's very much familiar with.

Harry paced three times in front of the bare wall until a door materialized. Wordlessly, he entered, slamming the door shut in his ire. It was very rude and outright immature of him to act this way. He could remember how much he hated when Malfoy strutted in all his aristocratic glory, being the pretentious bully who thought he was above all else, purposefully being nasty to his friends just to annoy him. He despised _that_ Malfoy so much.

So why is Harry suddenly being a prick when Malfoy learned to grow out of his snooty little self and mature?

Harry walked over the long table at the center and got the ingredients out of his bag. He appraised the room, and chuckled in approval at the Gryffindor red and gold that colored most of the room. Surely, Malfoy would throw a fit at the atrocious coloring that presumably disgust his Slytherin taste.

Harry stopped when he realized he's all alone.

"This is fucking ridiculous," Harry groaned and walked to the door. It was to Malfoy's expressionless face when he opened it. "Aren't you going to come inside?"

"You slammed the door," Malfoy said as if Harry _was_ the idiot.

"And you don't know how to open it?" Harry snapped, totally peeved by now. Malfoy raised his shoulders for a shrug. Harry sighed long-sufferingly and motioned for the idiot blond to get inside.

This will going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

Predictably, it was.

The _Augmentare Histrionicus_ potion needs to be brewed first since it's a core ingredient for _Sedatus Histrionicus_. They both agreed (or in Malfoy's godforsaken passive state, Harry decided) that Harry would take the Augmentare first and Malfoy would act as the 'mediator' for the both of them.

Harry supposed it wouldn't be a good idea for him to take the Augmentare, since he's currently feeling nothing but extreme annoyance. Snape said it would " _amplify the emotion that the brewer is feeling during the preparation_ ". And right now, as Harry crush the Chizpurfle fangs into very fine powder and added the Salamander blood to the now boiling turquoise potion in the medium-heat cauldron, Harry felt the burning ire and pictured it was Malfoy's head in the mortar that he was crushing. And Harry was sure it's not highly advisable to amplify that feeling.

Strangely, Harry does well with the potion-brewing. The process didn't contain much too complex stirring and chopping, unlike some of the potions they had brewed for NEWT's this term so far, but those with complicated steps Harry had done well enough and he didn't fucked up the ingredients, which really surprised him considering his history of potions mishaps. Harry stared at his now slightly shimmering vermillion potion, as what the instructions said. Harry smiled proudly at his work.

Malfoy was rather quiet during the whole brewing process. And Harry didn't know if it's frustrating or unnerving. On the other hand, Malfoy's constant insults and jabbing at his potion skills (or lack thereof) in the past had only pressured him. Malfoy had only made a comment the whole night, and that was to politely correct Harry when he almost mistakenly added the Fanged Geranium after the Powdered Moonstone instead of the Snake Fang. So maybe it was a good thing that he had to keep his snarky mouth shut for once.

Almost two hours later and it was Malfoy's turn to brew the _Sedatus Histrionicus_. Harry watched him with a fanatic fervor. If it were in the past, Harry wouldn't even dare to acknowledge Malfoy's composed and relax bearing when brewing. But right now that he was offered a front row view, it was there for him to appreciate. Malfoy moved with beautiful precision, maneuvering across their miniature potion station with clear-cut accuracy while still looking delicate and cool. He looked like he was born for the Potions lab, the way he held the knife and stir the potion with his calculating, aristocratic hands.

Harry knew Malfoy was the only student to rival Hermione in Potions, probably even better than her, not that Harry would ever admit that to any of them, but Harry didn't get to appreciate how "in his element" Malfoy was during Potions before because he had been a snooty, stuck up git. Right now though...

Harry didn't realize he was staring at Malfoy's pretty, long hands until they were lost inside his bag. Harry snapped out of his reverie and realized Malfoy had cleaned their area, and the two potions were already placed in separate corked glass vials.

"So," Harry stopped to clear his throat before continuing, "when are we going to test on the potions? And don't give me a shrug for an answer. I'm asking you, answer it precisely." He added when he saw Malfoy on the act of shrugging.

Harry didn't mean to sound imperious, but his tone of voice had came off harsher than he thought. Oddly enough, Malfoy opened his mouth to answer.

"I don't have any afternoon classes tomorrow," he said. Harry frowned at Malfoy but nodded his head.

"So, I'll meet you here after lunch?" Malfoy nodded his head. "Right. Good night then."

Harry was almost by the door when he looked back and saw that Malfoy was still standing in his spot, still. Harry frowned. _What is his problem?_

"Malfoy," Harry called, "are you just going to stand there all night?"

At that, Malfoy walked past him and out into the corridor, without any word.

* * *

Harry was staring at Malfoy during lunch.

The last thing he remembered thinking about before falling into a fitful of sleep last night (or the early morning) was Malfoy's vacant and dull expression throughout the brewing of their potions. And, surprise surprise! It had bugged Harry to no end. And staring at Malfoy during lunch offered a lot of opportunity to wonder what in buggering hell is going on with his once arch rival.

Harry didn't have any time to think about Malfoy when the term started. He knew Malfoy was different when he came back for eighth year, no one could really ignore how Malfoy passed on the opportunity to torment Harry and his friends when Malfoy, before, had always been there, always the persistent blithering figure in Harry's life for the past seven years.

But there had been a lot of things to think about when Harry came back to Hogwarts. Harry was not safe from the swooning, simpering crowd of his hero-worshippers. There were eyes and ears, and sometimes hands (which were terrifyingly traumatic all the same), that always followed him. Harry understood their need to thank him, their need to shake his hands, their shameless gawking at him for being "The Savior of Wizarding World" or "The Conqueror of Evil" or whatever balderdash, but Harry despised the attention and their overt way of showing their gratitude.

For the first few weeks into the term, Harry was quite pre-occupied with thinking of ways how to not get ravaged by the crowd, and not to mention, how to shot down his ex-girlfriend's advances without meaning to be rude and hurting her, and how to survive the eighth year without being pressured by the abnormally large expectations placed upon him. Harry had not think about Malfoy since the trials.

Right now, by the grace of their Potions project, Harry had the privilege to closely expect the extent of the changes in Malfoy's suddenly subdued behavior.

"Do you think something's wrong with Malfoy?" Harry mused, unintentionally voicing what should've stayed in his mind.

"Harry!"

Harry turned to stare at Ginny's glowering face. He was almost eerily reminded of the same expression on Molly's face when she's angry.

"Can't you stop staring at that slimy ferret for one second?" She scowled, her face almost as red as her flaming red hair.

Harry helplessly looked at Ron and Hermione, who both had apologetic expressions. He looked back at Ginny who was now standing.

"I don't understand you, Harry. If you can't stop obsessing over that evil Death Eater scum then I would never try to talk to you again."

Harry watched her retreating back, feeling awful for angering Ginny and slightly annoyed at her assumptions. Harry doesn't want to lose Ginny, that's why he was postponing any time to confront her of the truth. But he also can't stand her demands, threatening him like that.

"You know mate," Ron said. "If you have no intentions to get back with my sister, you might as well tell her. She's obviously expecting you both get back with each other since the war ended."

Harry morosely stared at Ron, "it's hard though. I couldn't give her what she wanted."

"It's okay, Harry," Hermione told him. "We all changed after the war. I'm sure Ginny would understand it."

"I hope so."

Harry once again stared across the Great Hall. Malfoy was still eating, but he was now listening to Zabini and Nott's conversation.

"I think there is something wrong with Malfoy."

Hermione disapprovingly frowned at him, "Harry, you can't be serious. You're not obsessing with Malfoy again!"

"I'm not obsessing with Malfoy, 'Mione!" Harry argued. Ron shook his head, staring pitifully at Harry (which Harry glowered at) and pointed a fork at him.

"Mate, you were staring at Malfoy for minutes earlier. Ginny practically shouted at your ears. Do you know what this reminds me of?" Ron shared a knowing look with Hermione. Harry felt agitated.

"I'm not!—" Harry looked up in time to see Malfoy walking out of the Great Hall. He immediately get to his feet and followed Malfoy out, missing the troubled looks on his best friends' faces.

* * *

When Snape's instructions said the _Sedatus Histrionicus_ acts as the mediator, Harry honestly didn't initially understand how it would work. Fifteen minutes since they both drank their potions, Harry still couldn't grasp the concept behind it.

"Can you stop tailing me like a fucking dog?" Harry snapped irately and turned to look at Malfoy, who was calmly staring back at him.

As expected, his vermillion _Augmentare Histrionicus_ had amplified the annoyance when he was preparing the potion and turned it into a full-blown, searing rage. The thing that frustrated Harry the most, and had spurred him on even more, is that he knew that the unbridled rage is irrational and made him felt crazed and manic. It was like fifth year all over again, but so much worse. He had already blasted a part of the wall in the Room of Requirements, and had snapped at the group of third year Hufflepuffs who flocked him.

The searing rage had caused his heart to furiously beat, blood boiling at every inconsequential thing that didn't usually wind him up in a right mindset. His mind was in a whirlwind of frenzied and intense emotions that it left him dizzy, black spots pulsating in his eyesight every now and then.

Malfoy, on the contrary, was calm and gentle. When he drank the potion, his empty eyes and dull expression were replaced with mildness, and he even have a serene smile on his face, much to Harry's indignation. He was becoming more and more vexed at Malfoy's gentle approach, Harry had repeatedly snapped at him but the Slytherin stayed collected at the face of Harry's unhinged behavior. He didn't know if this mild Malfoy is worse than emotionless Malfoy.

Harry wanted to pick a fight with Malfoy, to let out the unbridled rage and pour it out unto the calm Slytherin. But every time Malfoy pacify and soothe him, he couldn't help but feel... less and less angry with him, which frustrated Harry even more.

Harry was close to shaving his hair off with his bare hands.

"Have you not read Professor Snape's instructions about the Augmentare and Sedatus Potions?" Malfoy asked, sounding pleasant.

"Why would I read that slimy prat's instructions!" Harry glowered at him but Malfoy's expression remained serene. "He's the reason I'm a step away from crushing your ridiculously blond head!"

Malfoy gently smiled at him, _this fucking pretentious git_ , "there's a reason the Sedatus Potion acts as the mediator between the pair. Professor Snape's instructions stated that the drinkers of both potions must not have a distance of more than fifty meters."

Harry walked the distance between them and gripped Malfoy's collar, "so you mean we'll have to be with each other all the fucking time?"

"Until after the potions wear off which will take about half the day," Malfoy gently removed Harry's hands off him. "Unless you want to blow off the whole castle, you'll have to be with me to calm you down."

Harry wanted to blow Malfoy's calm person instead but he found himself helpless under Malfoy's gentle command, and instead, refocused his rage to the insufferable overgrown bat who was the sole perpetrator of this predicament.

"I want to fucking skin that greasy git's ass and feed it to the Giant Squid," Harry spat, baring his teeth as his magic cackled around them. Malfoy tightened his hold around his hand soothingly.

"You don't want to see Professor Snape's ass, Potter, so please calm yourself down," Malfoy admonished in his gentle voice, and Harry found himself easily yielding when being this physically close. Harry belatedly realized the floor they stood on was shaking and had stopped the moment he did calm himself.

So this was what the 'mediator' was about? Calming his maddened and disturbed countenance? And Harry really had to be within fifty meter or less with Malfoy or so he'd blow up the entire Hogwarts with his undulating emotions.

Great.

_Fuck you to seven hells, Snape._

"And we have an audience," Malfoy shook his head. Harry stared at the spectators that were starting to crowd around them in the fourth floor corridor. Harry felt the searing rage multiplying tenfold. "Harry, please don't."

Harry could only growl at the shocked students, powerless at the tone of Malfoy's voice when saying his first name.

"What are you staring at?" Harry spat at the crowd, and Harry's red face was enough to scare them all away.

When they were left in solitude in the middle of the hallway, Harry sighed deeply, feeling like all his energy had deserted him. He slightly leaned against Malfoy's body not giving a single shit about their very, _very not_ normal position.

"You okay?" Malfoy asked silently. Harry raised his head to stare up at Malfoy's grey eyes and all he could see was mildness, that is so unusual of the blond. It was a rare sight of Malfoy being so gentle and Harry couldn't find it himself to feel angry anymore. Just flummoxed and bewildered.

"Yeah. Just tired."

"Um, Harry?" A meek voice sounded behind him.

"What?" He snarled at the second year Gryffindor, who squeaked upon seeing his red, irate face.

"Er, Dumbledore wanted to see you in his office," the little boy immediately run away after hearing Harry's growl.

"Great! The old fool wanted to see me. What a great timing!"

Malfoy gently tutted, "it couldn't be that bad, Potter."

* * *

Of course, it wasn't bad. It was worse than he expected.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled when he saw Harry and Malfoy entering his office and immediately said his customary greetings of offering his Lemon drops, to which Harry sneered at.

"So, I take it the Histrionicus potion is going well?" The old Headmaster said merrily, eyes twinkling even more at the sight of the two arch rivals.

Harry gritted his teeth, "well? You call this well?" Harry had risen to his feet, face scowling nastily at the old Headmaster. Harry shrugged Malfoy's hand on his shoulder. "I could hardly ever get on without feeling like going crazy and you call this well?! And you only really thought of Inter-House Cooperation," Harry spat the words as if it disgusted him, "after the war when it was your own bias toward Gryffindors and prejudice against the Slytherins that had caused riff and misunderstandings between the Houses! And you wanted to fix this now, with this ridiculous Histrionicus hogwash, when it was already irreparable!

"The rest of the Houses hated Slytherins even more after the war! They were pariahs not only in Hogwarts but the whole of the Wizarding world. They weren't given a chance before the war, they were segregated! Even if they were awful and bullies, but it was not enough to cast them away that they felt like they had no choice but to be Death Eaters because the Light weren't so acceptable. You were the leader of the Light, the Hogwarts Headmaster and you have all the power to accept and convince them. But no, it was your prejudices that set the Slytherins apart. And you expect that this crazy idea would somehow mend that problem, wouldn't it?"

The silence progressed in Dumbledore's office, and for once, the Headmaster was speechless, the twinkle in his eyes had dulled. Harry sat down on his chair heavily, Malfoy put his hand on Harry's knee and immediately, Harry felt some of his anger ebbed away. Harry didn't know what had pushed him to shout at the Headmaster, he didn't even understand half of what he's saying. But all he felt was the searing rage that burned hot against his nerves and flowing through his veins, and the pure, unadulterated incense upon the sight of the Headmaster. It was worse than the anger he felt for Dumbledore in fifth year because it had been Voldemort's Horcrux. This resentment was Harry's and it was unwarranted but buried for years, and had been amplified.

"What do you want, Professor Dumbledore?" Harry hissed angrily. Malfoy's hand travelled to touch his arm and Harry struggled to relax.

"Forgive me my child, I only wanted to check on you—"

"Check on me?" Harry snapped then barked a jarring laugh, that is not unlike Sirius'. _Sirius_. Now he felt very murderous. "Why? Because you don't trust my partner? Because he's a Slytherin?" Harry growled, "or because you're starting to care for me now that I'm a fucking adult! Why haven't you deign to check on me when I was five and the Dursley's had locked me up in my cupboard for days, without food and water? Why haven't you check on me when I was eight and I had severe cold but they didn't even send me to the Hospital? Why haven't you check on me when I was punched by Dudley almost to my death when I was ten? I had suffered abuse under the family that you deliberately had me under the custody for throughout my childhood but you never check on me. Not once.

"I should've been with Sirius! And Remus even fought for my custody! But you send me to that hellhole when there were people who wanted to take me. And all my life in that evil lair I thought no one would want me but there were people who did! Remus! I would've been way better with him than being left to rot at that place! Which you did! You left me because of some blood ward bullshit. And one of the only person I thought was closer to become a family, you let him be incarcerated when you knew—there was no way you didn't—that he didn't took the mark! He wasn't the Secret Keeper! And you've got all this power to give him a trial but you let him die a prisoner!

So no! I don't see why you should check on me now that I can very well take care of myself. So please, stop pretending that you care."

Through the buzzing in his ear, he can hear the loud and shrilly sounds of metals colliding with each other and glasses falling to the floor but he didn't care. Harry gripped Malfoy's hand and pulled him up to his feet. "If you have nothing else to say Headmaster, we will excuse ourselves out."

It wasn't until they had turned the corner away from the Gargoyles that guarded the Headmaster's office that Harry stopped to pant against the wall. Malfoy laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Potter? Are you alright?"

A hysterical laughter bubbled out of Harry and he wheezed and doubled over, letting out a series of maniacal grins and snickers. Malfoy shook his shoulders.

"Harry!" Malfoy righted him and Harry found himself powerless again.

"I'm fine, just," Harry sighed. "I always wanted to say that to him for so long. It felt freeing and cathartic."

"Why don't we go back to the Common Room so you can rest?" Malfoy gently led him to the direction of the eighth year Common Room. And Harry, of course, acquiesced.

* * *

The Common Room was full, and it was pretty obvious that some of the eighth years had already started on their Potions project. They could see Parvati crying in the corner while Bulstrode was calming her down. Ernie Macmillan was enthusiastically jotting down notes as he interviewed an irate Anthony Goldstein. Hannah Abbott was talking about something excitedly while Terry Boot looked bored beside her.

The most funny pair, if Harry wasn't currently angry at the noise that reverberated throughout the room, was Neville and Theodore Nott. The Slytherin was snapping orders at Neville to massage his shoulders while the Gryffindor, pleasantly grinning, had submissively yield to his commands.

Harry angrily marched over the comfortable loveseat by the fire, who was currently occupied by Justin Finch-Fletchley.

"Get off the the couch, Finch-Fletchley," he gritted. Malfoy immediately went by his side. Finch-Fletchley sputtered before jumping out when Harry bared his teeth angrily.

Harry snuggled comfortably on the loveseat, and glared at Malfoy when the blond stayed standing by his side. "Aren't you going to sit down?" He snapped. When Malfoy calmly shook his head, Harry pulled him and Malfoy landed on his lap with an squeak.

That was when Ginny arrived.

"Harry! I've been looking—" she stopped and gaped at Malfoy practically sprawled on Harry's lap. Then she frowned, "why is the Death Eater scum on your lap, Harry?"

Harry's full-blown, searing rage came rushing back and the air around them cackled with barely restrained energy, "He is not a Death Eater scum, Ginevra."

Ginny gawked at him, shocked at the pure anger that was displayed on Harry's face. "Harry, w-what?—"

"Please, Weasley. Harry is on his potions—"

"Potions?" Ginny shrilled at Malfoy, glaring at him. "You poisoned him?!"

"It was our Potions project, Weasley," Malfoy calmly said, though the grip he had on the side of the loveseat was tight. Harry didn't know Malfoy was capable to feel anger under the Sedatus potion but Harry was too angry to comprehend it. "We were partnered and his emotions were amplified—"

"Don't lie to me! You poison him, you evil Slytherin—" Ginny was cut off when Harry leaped to his feet and almost lunged at her had not been Malfoy holding his arms back.

"I don't want to hurt you Ginny," Harry inhumanely growled, that Harry didn't knew where it came from. "It would be in your best interest to get your face out of my sight right this instant!"

That was enough of a warning and Ginny walked out of the eighth year Common Room. Harry sat back on the loveseat and Malfoy fit himself beside Harry.

Harry knew he would feel awful about this later. He couldn't even imagine the shame that will inevitably hunt him when the words that he rudely accosted Dumbledore would sink in. Not to mention he just triggered one of his close friends. He knew for sure Ginny wouldn't be so lenient after that. He didn't even know how to apologize for being an irrational prat. That irrational, raging part of him, that was amplified by the _Augmentare Histrionicus_ , self-righteously claimed that this wasn't his fault; that it was Dumbledore's for being such a meddling, old fool; that it was Ginny's for not being so understanding and not seeing how much Harry and her weren't on the same page anymore. And hearing _that_ self-righteous part of him made him even more frustrated and shameful and guilt-ridden.

Harry was happy Hermione and Ron weren't here. He couldn't deal with so much guilt weighing on him on top of the amplified anger. Not for the first time he bombarded Snape with colorful expletives in his mind for having such a brilliant idea.

Indeed.

"It isn't your fault," Malfoy suddenly said, as if reading Harry's mind, his face serene. Harry almost snap at him but the blond held his hand and massaged it.

Harry sagged even more against the seat, the swirling rage inside of him barely restrained. At least it was restrained. For now, though.

"It's the potion, Potter. It's not only amplifying your emotions, it also intensifies your sensitivity to external triggers. That's why your anger is irrational. It wants you to let it go so it can somehow be justified."

Right. This is fucking weird.

Harry stared at Malfoy's calm face. He looked very different from the snarky, snobbish, haughty, all-around awful elitist Malfoy that he knew all those years and the impassive and subdued Malfoy that came back for eighth year. If his brain wasn't addled by the potion-amplified anger, he would fret over how much disorienting and downright strange all this was. Malfoy being so reasonable and tolerant on his anger outbursts was way too weird and _not_ very normal.

He was used to the hostility, arrogant condescension and jaundice in Malfoy's eyes, but gentleness...

"Why don't we just start recording?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always felt strongly about any kind of abuse and bully (maybe bec i've been bullied myself before). And Dumbledore's intentions in the canon of Harry being put in the Dursley's, literally leaving him in their doorstep, ignoring the years of abuse and bully Harry had gone through under his wretched relatives' roof was kind of... preposterous for me. I mean??? All that abuse for some bloody wards??? Lmao i don't even understand. And let's not really get into the whole fifth yr fiasco where Dumbledore 'had to' ignore Harry because he was afraid the dark lord might be spying on him through Harry. It was fucked up and it had my blood boiling in anger really
> 
> So i just wanted to append what i felt for Dumbledore and his 'deliberate' neglect of Harry's mental welfare and condoning child abuse. Suffice to say, Dumbledore isn't really my favorite character in the series. I made him live because I wanted Harry to shout all of it to his face lol 
> 
> well, i guess the CAPSLOCK HARRY from fifth yr is back. I've always kinda loved that Harry because his character was totally relatable. I couldnt understand why they hate the fifth book, i mean yea Harry was whiny and being awful but he had just undergone intense trauma ofc i would be screaming & yelling if i were in his situation. Who wouldn't?
> 
> Thank you for the Kudos and the comments! 💕


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am really happy to read your comments. i didn't know someone would rlly read this but??? y'all enjoying this? it makes me so much happy. thank you for all those who also left kudos. I LOVE U ALL!
> 
> if u find grammatical errors, i might have to remind u that this is not beta-ed and English isnt my native language (im not even british lmao) so there is an obvious lack of britpicking, i apologize.

When Harry stared at Malfoy's saturated and viscous poison green _Augmentare Histrionicus_ , he already had an uncomfortable hunch of what the next twelve hours will progress.

The fiasco in the fourth floor corridor had spurred on the rumor mill led by the crowd that witnessed Harry and Malfoy's scene and Harry's outburst of emotions. The fickle and feeble-minded students of Hogwarts had led to believe silly and preposterous exaggeration of the truth. Whatever those rumors were, it had involved Malfoy cursing Harry or Malfoy having Harry under the Imperius.

Much to Harry's chagrin, his bunch of hero-worshippers had taken upon themselves to confront Malfoy; had him at the other end of a nasty hex or outright calling him bunch of assuming, derogatory words and names. Harry, in his own little ways, had shot down the rumors by telling the people who had guts to approach him all about their Potions project. But the damage had already been done.

Harry had seen Malfoy's withdrawn persona brought by the war silently seething in anger every time he went back to the eighth year Common Room after a trip from the Hospital Wing. Even at Malfoy's taciturn and recessive disposition, Harry had known Malfoy for seven years and could see through his mask of indifference. Harry had caught on to the light twitch in Malfoy's left eyes and the prominent throbbing vein at his temple and translated it to annoyance. It's the only indication that Malfoy could still feel emotions, what with his doll-like, emotionless façade.

It had taken out of control when the cursed _Daily Prophet_ had taken wind of these baseless assumptions. There had been a few Howlers and letters from supposedly concerned masses that assaulted Malfoy at breakfast. It had gotten worse that Dumbledore had to step in and announced to the entire Great Hall, and had later on sent letters to the Ministry and the _Daily Prophet_ , about the eighth year Potions project.

Harry wanted to confront (see: comfort) Malfoy, but frustratingly so, Zabini somehow figured out his goals and glare at him in warning before Harry could so much as make a step to Malfoy's direction.

Harry perused Snape's instructions regarding the coloring of the potions and the brewer's emotions. _Bitter, caustic, snarky, resentful — Poison Green._ They had all been the intrinsic characteristics of Malfoy's little self. And Harry—despite his belief that Malfoy had changed after the war—couldn't fault his (once) Slytherin rival for feeling bitter.

The Slytherin House had always been segregated from the other Houses before, more so after the war. The only upside of this prejudicial treatment, is that the rest of the students had pretended that the Slytherins don't exist. They were left out to themselves, were not given a single attention, were not bullied and hexed in the hallways. After a few months of this reprieve and practically ignored by everyone, Malfoy's resentment and bitterness at the sudden negative attention he was receiving wasn't a wonder.

Even Harry himself felt his patience thinning at the absurdness of the masses and the frustrating predicament they were in. It was probably a right timing that he was about to take a mediating potion rather than the amplifying one. Merlin knows what he'll do...

Speaking of, Harry paused to determine the aftertaste of his _Sedatus Histrionicus_. It was Friday afternoon, three days since they had started their Potions project. There was a significant difference in their taste. While he had been angry while brewing the amplifying potion, it had brought a vile, scalding aftertaste that could be comparable to a sulfur clawing at his esophagus; not unlike the feeling of the searing rage that flowed through his veins.

The _Sedatus Histrionicus_ , on the other hand—while Malfoy's _Augmentare Histrionicus_ is one of the core ingredients—tasted basically the opposite of its counterpart's. Harry's potion left a sweetened caramel tang that seemed to seep into his taste buds. He immediately felt an inexplicable rush of giddiness and fondness for an unnamed thing—or, _person_ , as his brain usefully supplied.

"Are you just going to continue staring off space like a dunderhead buffoon or I have to lecture you about the basics of locomotion because you're much of a nitwit than you let on?"

The familiar snarky voice of his schoolboy rival snapped at his trance. Harry turned to see Draco Malfoy's sneering face, grey eyes sharp with his signature haughty condescension.

Harry barely held back a gasp at the very familiar picture of Malfoy— _his_ Malfoy, the arch rival. The feeling of being brought back to the earlier years of rivalry and petty one-upmanship, which felt like ages ago, was disorienting. Harry was left staring, gawking, at Malfoy's sardonic expression.

"Potty, potty, potty," Malfoy sang in his sarcastic, biting tone, "has Potter gone loony? Snap out of it, idiot! I'm going to Severus' chambers but if you're just going to sit their with your imbecilic self, then it's a pleasure to leave you be at your balmy Gryffindor tendencies."

Harry didn't know what pushed him—probably just the effects of the _Sedatus Histrionicus_ , the giddiness he felt at the object of his fondness (Harry will have to hate himself later for even putting it that way), or the longing to hear that biting voice (Harry never sounded so masochistic in his entire traumatized life)—but Harry jumped in his chair and practically flung himself at Malfoy's body.

Later on, he would hate himself even more at his stupidity but _fuck it! Malfoy is back._

"Malfoy! It is you!"

* * *

Bloody Potter and his bloody Gryffindor sappiness.

Draco hated Potter. It didn't matter that the nutty Gryffindor was under the influence of a potion. Either way, he had hated Potter most of his life, more so at the way the idiotic boy had clung to him like an uncouth monkey.

Harry Potter, the Gryffindor Golden Boy, the Chosen One, the Savior of the Wizarding World, the bloody privileged Boy-Who-Lived-Twice. Draco could just basically list a hundred and so things on why he hated Potter's guts but it would not be cathartic, because Potter himself is the reason why Draco planted the seeds of resentment and had grown into a very nasty tree bearing cynical fruits.

Potter, the sweet, innocent looking eleven-year-old Potter whom Draco had offered a handshake only to get turned down and chosen over that ugly, redheaded Weasel. No one had ever turn his friendship down, no one had ever had the guts to refuse him. Well, except the idiotic, messy bespectacled git!

Potter who had repeatedly defeated him in Quidditch, Potter who had a bunch of worshippers at his beck and call, Potter who was better at him in every single thing!

Potter who was the reason why his father had been incarcerated in Azkaban back in fifth year. Potter who was stalking him like a psycho in sixth year, had sliced him almost to death. Potter who was stupidly captured by the Snatchers and brought over to the Malfoy Manor, whom Draco was forced to not identify, hence the multiple _Crucio's_ on his part!

Potter who saved him from the Fiendfyre, which was supposed to be Draco's death. Potter who was the reason for his and his mother's acquittal.

Potter who has his arms around Draco's torso, green eyes behind that hideous glasses staring up at him earnestly and with a cringeworthy amount of fondness. His ridiculously unguarded green eyes had Draco's resentment ebbing away.

His bitter fifteen year old self that had been amplified by the potion went wild at the prospect of having power to do anything to Potter. Now that his arch rival was unwary and trusting, there had been so much that he wanted to do to this idiotic Gryffindor that he had no chance to carry out before.

Instead, Draco felt powerless and wanted to yield to Potter more than the urge for reprisal.

Bloody Potter!

This is why he needed to go to Severus before he himself'll go bonkers. Draco could just feel the urge in him to submit under Potter's green eyes and physical contact.

_I will have an earful with you, Severus!!!!_

"Of course it is me, you fool!" Draco raised his head, exhaling a long-suffering, weary breath. "Will you keep on clinging unto me like an ungracious, ill-bred Neanderthal?" he said waspishly.

Potter huffed and let go of Draco's body, thankfully, but the fondness in his face became apparent and unequivocal, much to Draco's chagrin.

"Hear hear, Draco," Potter said in a pleasant tone. "Don't be nasty to me. I'm here to 'mediate' you, remember?" Potter placed both his hands on Draco's shoulders. He had a mock pout on his lips that had Draco bristling. "What would happen if you don't have me? I know you value your pride so much, it would not be good to continue embarrassing yourself. You should stop treating me nastily, or else..." Potter added in a faux threatening tone, that to Draco sounded ridiculous coming from his righteous mouth.

"Or else what?" Draco sneered, unable to help himself. "You can't leave me, Potter. Even if I treat you like an appalling House-elf, just like what you deserved to be treated, the potion would not allow you."

"Now, that's not very nice, Draco!" Harry– _fuck—_ Potter admonished gently, his lips pursing and brows frowning in disapproval and it took all of Draco to not feel the need to contort Har—Potter's face back to it's pleasant, _fond_ expression. Well, at least visibly. Internally, Potter's mediating potion acted on its purpose and he felt succumbing and conceding to Potter.

Draco had seen Potter in his emotional outburst in Monday. He didn't know what the Gryffindor was angry about during the potion preparation, but Draco had seen enough of fifth year and knew that Potter was inclined to intense emotional unstableness. Draco had seen Potter's warring emotions in his eyes, the confusion on his face when Draco was being gentle throughout his rage, wanting to get angry at Draco but not being able to because of the potion. And Potter must've seen the same warring emotions in Draco's eyes because he suddenly grin. And that bright grin did not bode so well for Draco.

"I'm just mocking you, silly."

Draco groaned and hauled Potter out of the Room of Requirements.

"Don't you know the concept of gentleness, Draco?" Potter said, with a touch of tease.

"I'm surprise you even knew gentleness in the first place, Potter, since you have a grace and subtlety of a mountain troll," Draco spat, but he conceded.

Bloody Potter.

_Bloody, Severus!_

...

"Bloody hell, Severus!"

That was the first thing Draco said (shouted) upon barging inside Severus' sleeping chambers. It was a blessing that Severus had just buttoned his robes close. Draco had a moment to remember Harry's statement about _skinning the Potions Professor's ass and feed it to the giant's squid_ , and had to stifle an inappropriate snort.

Behind him, Harry tutted gently, "with all your Pureblood decorum, Draco, you have no sense of discretion."

"Shut up, Potter!" Draco snapped and turned to Severus, who was sneering darkly at them.

"Who told you to barge in unannounced inside my sleeping chambers, Draco?" Severus glared at Harry behind him. "And you brought the insolent brat with you?"

The said insolent, _stupid_ , brat have thrown caution to the wind and thought it be nice to show Severus some cheek.

"If you've brought me here on Monday, Draco, I would've blown up this ridiculously melodramatic dark lair. Well, _Severus_ , have you lived up to your reputation as the Dungeon's overgrown bat?" Harry said this in an overtly innocent tone that Draco couldn't held back the loud snort.

Severus' eyes shined maliciously and his lips pulled in a dangerous snarl. He stalked silkily to tower over the Gryffindor, who was now trying to hide behind Draco.

"Had the decency to look afraid now, you idiot boy?" Snape snapped nastily. Harry had an exaggerated pout on his face. Severus turned to glare at Draco. "Tell me Draco, did you just brought this dunderhead here for me to be an unfortunate spectator to his disgustingly outrageous displays—"

"I have you know it's not an disgustingly outrageous display, you—"

"Well, I don't know, Severus," Draco smoothly cut off Harry's statement. "If it's really unfortunate of you, then I have the pleasure to have you a spectator to this _disgustingly outrageous display_." He drawled in his haughty, snooty way. Harry emphatically nodded his head.

"My promise of skinning your ass and feeding it to the giant squid still stands, you know," he added to Severus. Draco turned to Harry, glaring.

"You wouldn't shut up, would you?" Harry grinned innocently, _the fucking audacity with this impish little bitch_. With a sneaky wave of Draco's wand, he casted a Silencing spell at Harry and the Gryffindor prat had lost his voice. Harry looked at him, offended.

"Close your disgusting mouth, Harry. You look like a bloody idiot," Draco jeered before looking back to Severus.

Severus had a speculative glint in his dark eyes, though it was lost in the face of Draco's sneer.

"You really thought you did something, do you?" Draco barked out derisively. Severus merely raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Have your senses escaped you, Severus? You call yourself an honorable Potions Master, yet you went and conduct a probably illegal experimentation on unassuming eighth years—"

"For the information of your asinine mind, I have gotten an explicit authorization from the Minister himself, you foolish boy," Severus sneered back, his weariness on Draco's never-ending tirade was obvious on his sallow face. "If you—"

"You can't dismiss me that easily," Draco sniffed, his tone sounding like his fourteen year old caustic self. "For all the rationalities you boasted, you sure are acting very illogical. Haven't you foreseen the consequences of your actions? Pairing me with a Gryffindor? To Potter no less," He said in a bitter tone, snarling at Severus' unaffected face. "Potter had gone loony when he was taking the fucking amplifying potion. You know what he could do at that state? Blow the whole fucking castle. Or maybe I should've let him see you, so he could really blow your greasy face up."

Severus' posture was too comical, if Draco was in his right mind he would laugh at his godfather's expanse. Severus had his hand on his hips and another cradling his temple, a palpable expression of exhaustion on his face.

"I will have no more of this useless, theatrical whinging Draco. You can let Potter, or in this case," Severus smirked nastily in retaliation, "yourself, to detonate the whole castle. Unless you want me to blast your airheads off myself, you can remove your pitiful selves out of my chambers. Now, _Mr. Malfoy_."

Draco seethed, wanting to give Severus a piece of his mind, but Harry pulled on his arms incessantly. After removing 50 points from both their Houses, Severus slammed the door to their faces.

* * *

The _Sedatus Histrionicus_ felt more different and way weirder than the _Augmentare_.

The amplifying potion felt so potent through Harry's veins, burning in their wake, tasting so vile and heavy on his tongue, grating on his nerves, obscuring his reasons. Harry repeatedly felt powerful under his anger and powerless under Draco. The feeling likened to a wild animal trapped behind a cage. While he wanted to rage at Draco, there was the helplessness in him that was caused by Draco's physical proximity.

The mediating potion, on the other hand, was like being in a blissful and satisfying giddy rush. Harry intermittently felt like bounding through walls and floating on cloud nine; a confectionery tang bursting on his palate. While he seemed to have some power over Draco, there was an incessant dull tug—a helpless urge—inside him that propelled him to cater to Draco's whim.

There was a drive in Harry, brought on by the mediating potion, to please Draco and to satisfy him. But the weirdest part is that it didn't felt like it was forced. Harry totally enjoyed calming Draco down, to touch his hands, to cling to him. He didn't felt like a slave to the helpless urge; but rather, the helpless urge seemed like a subconscious commitment.

And it was beyond strange; the amount of pleasure Harry took in seeing Draco calm under his touch, the happiness that filled him when Draco abruptly stopped mocking the third year Hufflepuffs that passed by them when Harry admonished him. Draco was never this agreeable, and Harry never had this influence over Draco before.

"Thought you could just sway me with your absurd Gryffindor sappiness, Potter?" Draco said acerbically, glaring at the picnic that was laid by the Great Lake, under one of the trees. "You don't expect me to just sit there like a lowlife peasant now, do you?"

"Don't be such a git, Draco," Harry said mildly, shaking his head up at the blond fondly, before pulling him down beside him. Draco grunted but Harry shoved a sandwich in his mouth. "I planned all this for you, you should at least be thankful."

"Thankful?" Draco chewed on the sandwich and swallowed before sneering. "Being with you had diminished my will to live even more and now you want me to be thankful?"

 _So dramatic_ , Harry shook his head. Harry grinned in satisfaction when Draco indulged himself with a plate of treacle tart from the collection of sweets Harry asked Kreacher to prepare earlier.

Harry didn't even know what occurred into him. Maybe it was a byproduct of the _Sedatus Histrionicus_ , the urge to please Malfoy, or Harry's just crazier than he let on. After the unfortunate trip down Snape's sleeping chambers, Draco's mood had abysmally became even more cynical. When Professor McGonagall took 25 points from the Slytherin after Draco purposefully bumped against a Ravenclaw Muggleborn and spat his once twisted Pureblood ideals that even the blond's fourteen-year-old self would be embarrassed, Harry utilized his flair for the spontaneity to somehow lessen Draco's embarrassment in the wake of this cursed project.

"Harry?"

Harry knew it was Ginny before he even see her, sighing. Draco raised his head and snarled at the newcomer.

"It's your redheaded, little Weaslette, Potter," Draco nastily said, grey eyes growing sharper at Ginny. Harry touched his arms and pursed his lips at the blond, before turning to smile at Ginny's glowering face.

"Ginny," Harry beamed. "I haven't seen you in days. I wanted to apologize to you but you were—"

"Apologize?" Ginny frowned as he stared at Harry's hand around Draco's. "You don't have to, Harry. I'm the one who needs to apologize. I knew you have no say about the awful situation you were in but I should've understand—"

"Awful situation?" Draco rudely interrupted, putting his arm around Harry's shoulder and pulling him closer. "I have you know that me and Harry were going along so fine before your unwelcome presence so abruptly intrude into our space. Now if you would just, I don't know, bugger off to hell, Weasel, it would be a pleasure."

Harry not-so-gently slap Draco's stomach with the back of his hand. "That's not very nice of you, Draco. Don't be so obnoxious on my friend!" Harry tutted.

Ginny eyed their position, her frown deepening, "I didn't know you grew closer to that evil Death Eater git, Harry. What's gotten into you?"

Harry's smile fell and a sudden ache bloomed in his temple. There was an unpleasant churn in his stomach at Ginny's words, the _evil Death Eater git_ rotating in his mind not unlike those obsessive ugly thoughts he had at night. He felt protective of Draco and he wanted nothing more than to defend him. But Harry knew it would lead to another row with Ginny, and he didn't think he could feel any more guilty with hurting his friend.

Draco snarled at Ginny, the hurt and anger in his face were apparent. Before he could do anything though, Harry curled up closer to the blond to ground both of them.

"It's just the potion, Gin," he sighed tiredly. "Look. Can I make it up with you? Tomorrow? Hogsmeade?" Harry asked, hopefully to distract her and tell her the thing that he's been postponing to tell.

Ginny had brightened at that while Draco's arm around him tightened. Ginny nodded.

"Of course, Harry. Madam Puddifoot's?"

Harry remembered the disaster of his date with Cho in fifth year, and knew it would not bode well when Ginny said the cursed place. But Harry didn't want to quell the excitement and happiness in Ginny's eyes. It was the first positive emotion he'd seen on the girl's face. Begrudgingly, he acquiesced. With a final glare on Draco, Ginny turned and left.

Draco pulled his arm back and put as much distance between him and Harry. The Gryffindor stared in confusion at Draco's scowling face.

"Madam Puddifoot's? You setting up your pathetic little date to disaster. I knew you don't even want to be with that ugly ginger head, but why do you have to pretend? You think you're so mighty and high that you couldn't care less that you hurt anyone," Draco, unbidden, said maliciously. "I wouldn't be surprised that you nearly lose everything, _everyone_ , in your life, Potter. Because you treating everyone the way you do is the reason why they all left you."

Harry wanted to punch Malfoy as soon as he said those words. He wanted to get angry, to whip his wand out and sent a nasty hex at the blond's ugly, sneering face. But Harry forced a smile on his face, propelled by the _Sedatus Histrionicus_ in his system. Malfoy must've seen something in his face because he tried to reach out to Harry, but the Gryffindor stood up and looked up at the grey clouds looming overhead, promising a drizzle.

"It's going to rain, it's probably best to get back inside," he said, hurriedly walking towards the direction of the castle without waiting for Malfoy to follow.

* * *

The rest of the day passed by in a daze.

Draco's behavior was becoming more and more fiercely antagonistic, targeting unsuspecting students, mostly first and second year Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, spitting nonsense about their Muggleborn blood, their Houses and clothing tastes.

Harry got through the horrible and tiring day through the grace of the _Sedatus Histrionicus_. He still wanted to defend Malfoy, still stuck literally beside him, still wanted to please him. But everytime he tried touching the blond, comfort him, Harry was brought back to the picnic by the lake, words rotating in his mind like a limbo, he felt like a rubber band stretched to its capacity; straining him until the point of wanting to explode.

Harry and Draco were with Hermione, Parkinson, Ron and Zabini in the eighth year Common Room. It was one o'clock in the morning, and the rest of the eighth years had retired to their dormitories or went out to their private trysts somewhere in the castle. It's still half an hour before the potions wore off, and Harry couldn't wait to end this day.

The other two pairs were involved in their own bubbles. Zabini was trying to sneer at Ron disgustingly, but every time Ron said something, Zabini would laugh uncontrollably only to glare at the redhead again. Hermione was babbling excitedly about something to Parkinson, who was trying to look bored and uninterested, but Harry thought he saw intrigue and suppressed amazement in the Slytherin's eyes.

Harry and Draco, on the other hand...

Harry sat straight beside the blond, vaguely sickened at the thought of being near Malfoy. Harry supposed his partner felt the same, moving restlessly at the same time trying to move away from him. They were both silent, tensed beside each other.

Suddenly, Malfoy growled when Parkinson laughed loudly at something Hermione said, putting an arm around the bushy-haired witch. The other four people stared confusedly, while Harry only clenched his jaw, when Malfoy jumped up and accosted Hermione.

"Really Pansy?" Malfoy sneered, the disgust shining brightly in his grey eyes. "Frolicking with the filthy, know-it-all Mudblood. Couldn't you sink any lower?"

There was a commotion and verbal dispute that followed Malfoy's statement but Harry remained seated, detached while watching it play before him. Pansy Parkinson immediately stood up and defended Hermione, but that only spurred Malfoy on and spat all the derogatory terms he could think of. Ron, probably because of the _Sedatus Histrionicus_ , calmly stood up and blurted philosophical things that weren't normally heard from him. This caused Malfoy to direct his hatred to Ron, and that propelled Zabini standing up too, interjecting how awful, wicked and rotten the blond was. Hermione stayed curling up in the sofa, eyes bright with tears.

"Shut up!" Harry all but shouted. The four disputing people, and the sobbing Hermione, looked up to Harry all at once. Harry struggled to breathe, to _calm down._ The churning in his stomach went wild at the angered look in Malfoy's face. Harry stared at Malfoy's acerbic grey eyes somberly. "Stop it. Just stop this."

It was a soft command, though Harry never meant to sound it that way. Malfoy's face fell and he seemed to realize everything that he had done, because his eyes shone against the light, an unmistakable glint of remorse. Harry took everything in him to ignore the wild churning in his stomach and stood up, gripping Malfoy's arm tightly.

Harry all but pulled Malfoy up to the boy's dormitory. Pushing the door open, he dragged Malfoy inside only to be stopped by a sight of Theodore Nott going down on Neville.

"Ehem."

Harry had no time to react, and to wonder when the fuck did his friends' preference had swing the other way, as both the naked boys scrambled to get their clothes and bolt out of the room. The slamming of the door resounded through the silent eighth year Gryffindor boys' dorm.

"Sit on my bed," Harry softly instructed. Without so much as a protest or a sneer, Draco did as Harry instructed. The Gryffindor stayed standing on his spot by his bed, staring down on Malfoy.

Harry knew that the potion was wearing off because a mixture of shame, self-loathe, embarrassment and anger contorted the blond's face. Harry started to feel the after-effects of the suppressed emotions. Anger was clawing at his control.

Malfoy looked like he has something to say. But before he could, Harry punched him straight in his pointy, ferrety face.


	4. Chapter 4

The sound of Harry's fist against Malfoy's face resonated through the silence of the eighth year Gryffindor boys' dormitory, his head tilted painfully to the side. Harry inwardly cringed at the sickening _crunch_ of Malfoy's cartilage against the brunt of his fist. He was never really one for physical violence. Years of being Dudley's punching bag had gave him its ugly firsthand account. But Harry's anger had hit him full force. Violence had been an instinctive response after seeing the self-loathe and regret in Malfoy's face.

Malfoy's hand touch the blood gushing out of his broken nose, softly wincing at the feel of the clammy crimson red against his pale fingers. It was a fierce and unexpected blow, judging by the stunned look on Malfoy's face. He stared up at Harry, round grey eyes glinting against the firelight. His already pallor face had considerably paled—Draco looked like a broken doll, porcelain and delicate and bloodied, with traces of fear starting to surface from the shock and bewilderment. Harry's anger, frustratingly so, evaporated, leaving him with nothing but shame.

Harry stared at the other's bloodied nose, feeling more and more awkward and strangely nervous by the passing tensed seconds.

"I'm sorry, I just—" Harry huffed in agitation, the words Malfoy had said earlier by the lake came rushing in his mind, making it harder for him to rationalize his brutish instincts. Malfoy had made some contemptuous comments about his parents' death before, repetitively degraded the Weasleys' financial state, and went on to insult Molly which resulted the bloody fist fight in the Quidditch pitch in fifth year.

But those times, Harry could gave as much as he received. If Malfoy could spat out disdainful things about his parents and the Weasleys, Harry could bark as much. He could care less about Malfoy's words since he knew the blond just wanted a rise out of him. But those words back in the lake hit Harry more than he would care to admit. He was seized with the impeded and buried grief because Harry believed Malfoy's words to be true; they haunted them in his dreams—their faces, Sirius and all the people he loved who died, frequented in his dreams and condemned him for their death. And Harry couldn't fault them for entirely placing all the blame on him because it was true, it had been him who was the reason they were all dead. Malfoy's words hit home, burning the nearly healed scars and piercing through the wounds that went on deeper.

Though this was easier for him if Malfoy put up with some of their past animosity, sneering nastily and being the caustic, irreverent prat the way he had been under the amplifying potion. But the unusual vulnerability in Malfoy's ocean eyes was enough for Harry to let the ire go. It was all the more hard and exhausting to force out the anger at the memory of the blond's cutting words when Malfoy looked so depreciating before him. _So fucking frail_. The churning in Harry's stomach—that has nothing to do with potion now that he was completely sober—intensified, heavy with guilt and something akin to anger, _at himself_.

Harry made to sit beside Malfoy. Before he could even touch half a cheek on his Gryffindor sheet, Malfoy all but jumped out of his skin. The palpable distress in Malfoy's disposition, for whatever reasons that Harry couldn't fathom, had Harry feeling hopeless and alarmed.

"I—I... I'm sorry, I didn't mean it," Harry said again, rather lamely. But the expression on the blond's face was bordering on hysteria, shaking his head hastily.

"No, it's my fault," Malfoy softly said in a broken whisper. "I was—I'm an... an asshole, to you, to Granger, to Weasley, to everyone," he was beginning to sound gibberish, "I shouldn't have said what I said in the lake! You don't deserve it. Please don't think... You're not... it's not—I'm so sorry..."

"Malfoy. It's not your—"

As if Harry's voice had been a trigger, Malfoy heaved a grievous sigh and started choking on broken sobs. Harry rather felt like choking on the large lump lodging its way in his throat as Malfoy fell into his chest, shuddering in panic. Harry was horrifyingly reminded of the Sectumsempra incident in sixth year, and he remembered being frozen on his spot as if gotten hit by a stunner in the chest upon realizing Malfoy was breaking down before Moaning Myrtle. Right now, Harry froze on an entirely different reason; seeing Malfoy's body wreaked with anguished sobs, Harry was afraid he would make another fucked up mistake of casting an unknown dark spell on Malfoy and the blond would actually fall dead this time.

Harry didn't know what to do. He couldn't even manage his own emotions, let alone the person whom he was supposed to hate hysterically breaking down in front of him. His history with confronting intense emotionality was when he and Cho were dating, which he eventually bollocksed up.

And right now, he was terrified of having to deal with the same marred consequences. Harry could handle Dark Lords and Potions with Snape but emotions are on another, unreachable level.

"Malfoy," Harry said, wincing upon hearing his voice sounding harsh. Malfoy seemed to pick up on this and tensed. With a much softer voice that he could muster, he repeated, "Malfoy. Look at me."

Malfoy slowly raised his head. Harry saw fear in his grey eyes, unshed tears clinging on his long, golden lashes. Harry mindlessly summoned a clean cloth and wandlessly cast an _Aguamenti_ on it. Harry gently dabbed the wet cloth on the dried blood on Malfoy's nose and lips, careful not to hit Malfoy's broken nose as well as making a lot of effort not to look at Malfoy's wary eyes on his face.

"Can I... can I heal it?" Harry asked, coughing at his squeaky voice. Harry saw Malfoy's lips lightly pursed but he nodded anyway. Harry pulled his wand and pray that his Healing spells would be efficient enough not to worsen Malfoy's broken nose. Harry exhaled at the familiar sickening sound of the bone repairing. "Is that okay?"

Malfoy meekly nodded and Harry made a mistake of staring up at Malfoy's eyes. Harry found the blond's eyes so deep and mesmerizing, it was more silver than grey with the firelight from the candelabra reflecting off the glassy surface, with golden specks surrounding the slowly dilating pupil. Harry was confused why he doesn't want to look away, or why he felt being drawn to the eyes that only looked at him with malice and disdain in the past.

And why he preferred it looking so delicate and at the same time a storm of inexplicable emotions that were lost on him, rather than the dull and vacant look after the war and the pompous and arrogant that were inherent on the blond, was beyond Harry.

But before he could even think of deciphering it and _fucking_ look away, the door to their dorm banged open. The newcomers were met with the sight of Harry with his wand in his right hand and the wet cloth on the other. It was obvious that Parkinson mistook this as an attack before Harry could even hear her shrilly voice.

"What the fuck have you done, Potter?!" Harry was saved from getting pounced on by the Slytherin girl by Zabini, as he held back her growling friend before she could reach Harry.

For all the efforts on his part, Harry's eyes refused to stray from Draco's, and he was starting to panic inside when he wasn't willing to yet. He heard Ron's voice calling him, but all he could think of was how tantalizing Draco's steely eyes were. It was mental, their friends were starting to get troubled by the sight of Harry and Draco drowning in each other right in front of them, but Harry didn't care. And Harry saw it in Draco's eyes, too.

 _This is not fucking normal_. _Snap the fuck out of it, Harry!_

"Get out," predictably, it was the first thing Harry blurted out, stupidly enough. He didn't miss the palpable hurt in Draco's face as the blond stood and obediently walked out.

Harry didn't pay enough attention to see Parkinson's sneer and Zabini's thoughtful look as the Slytherins left the Gryffindor dorm room, or Hermione and Ron's knowing and concerned stares. Harry fell back in his bed, mind detached, fingers still gripping the wet cloth.

Even as the whole dorm fell silent and dark, and most occupants were deep asleep or pretending to be, Harry stared vacantly at the ceiling, the look on Malfoy's eyes never leaving his mind until past five in the morning.

* * *

Harry trudged his way across the hallways of the castle. It was Saturday noon, and the weekly friendly Quidditch match between the sixth and seventh years had just finished. Harry was too frazzled and sleepless to give a rat's arse about Quidditch, and his usual enthusiasm for the Wizarding sport had significantly depleted after the war.

Harry supposed he wasn't late for lunch, so he made a detour to the Great Hall instead of going his initial plan of having to lunch down in the Kitchens.

Harry was met with a sight of Hermione and Ron bickering about Merlin knows what in the Gryffindor table. Harry sat in his usual place with a sullen sigh, staring at his best friends and grimacing at their daily dose of squabbling at the smallest of things. After the war, Ron and Hermione had decided they would continue to where they left off. And Harry was happy for them, sincerely, but there's just too much that Harry could tolerate in the couple's seven-year foreplay before he seriously feel sick.

They didn't even noticed he was sitting before them, heads ducking down to whisper at each other. Brilliant.

"A very _gratifying_ morning to both of you."

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed. Harry found it oddly pleasing seeing the guilty blush on her cheeks. He only offered a stiff smile before digging into his brunch, which rather felt like a grimace on his deadpanned face. "We were trying to wake you up earlier to watch the game, but I supposed you haven't slept well enough so we left you be."

Harry grunted noncommittally before chewing on his food. In his periphery, he saw Hermione sharing a knowing look with Ron. Again with their sentimentally cloying uniform looks that always gratingly reminded him of his solo life. Harry's patience run out. He woke up on the wrong side of bed after all.

"Can you stop it?" Harry snapped. Hermione looked at him as if he were going loony. "If you wanted to be all disgustingly couple-y at each other then you can excuse yourselves now and spare me the suffering."

"What? Staring at each other the way you and Malfoy did last night? That was torture, mate, I tell you," Ron snarked. Harry took notice of the tensed lines of Ron's shoulders. "I knew you didn't want to go back with Ginny, mate, but you need to stop being the bloody chivalrous gentleman and confront her. Madam Puddifoot's!" Ron exclaimed, probably remembering the Cho fiasco in fifth year. "You can just give Ginny the bloody closure that she deserved before you go and make disgusting heart eyes at your blond paramour."

Harry glowered at Ron, "I don't have a bloody blond paramour, Ron!" He sighed heavily, raking his hands through his already nest for a hair. "She asked me to go with her at that wretched place. And I can't have it in me to bring her down, Ron. It was the first time I've seen her face glowing happily in months."

Ron relaxed slightly, looking at Harry sympathetically, "I know it's hard mate, but I just don't want you, my best friend, to hurt my sister. You can tell her once and for all. She'd be hurt of course, but better now before things'll start getting complicated for the both of you."

"It might be hard for her, but Ginny's stronger than you credit her for. She can get through this if you break it to her this early," Hermione said, and suddenly grinned. "If it makes you feel better, I might've caught her more than once with Parkinson... getting out of a cupboard."

"What?" Ron asked, face pinched as if torn whether he would vomit or rage. "My sister Ginny with Pansy Parkinson... I never thought she'd swing that way."

Of all things that was worth to fret over in Hermione's admission, it had to be that part. If it were Ron two years ago, he would've marched over her sister and gave her an earful about his anti-Slytherin prejudice.

Hermione slapped him gently on his arms and huffed, "I didn't know Purebloods have the same skewed perspective about gender and sexuality like Muggles. I certainly never expected it from you, Ron."

"I'm not a homophobe if that's what you're implying," Ron said, sounding offended. "Charlie is gay, Hermione. And if you've forgotten, Percy and Oliver are about to be engaged. I just never thought of Ginny... not being straight, since she'd dated probably every boys in our year."

"Haven't you heard of the concept of bisexuality, Ron?" Hermione asked drily. Ron only shrugged.

"Well, it's not as if there's some crash course about sexuality for Purebloods now, is there?" Ron's face frowned. "Bloody hell. My sister's gay for Pansy Parkinson? It had to be that she-devil?"

"Pansy's not that bad, Ronald," Hermione admonished lightly, earning an appalled look from Ron.

"Merlin's tits, 'Mione!" He dramatically exclaimed. "It's Pansy Parkinson! She repeatedly called you a crossbreed between a beaver and a drugged-out lab rat in fourth year."

Internally, he didn't care whoever Ginny might end up with. In all honesty, he was happy for Ginny if that's really the case. He doesn't want to break whatever thin ice the both of them were already standing on the moment he'd break it to her. If it really came down to it, Harry doesn't care if he'd be left in pitiful solitude, watching his two best friends eat each other out with their eyes over the breakfast table. As long as him and Ginny were on a complimentary ground, or even just neutral, Harry would be content.

After all, Ginny was his friend first before becoming his lover. It would truly break his heart having to break that friendship more than having to close their almost nonexistent relationship.

"If you care to think about it," Hermione mused, smiling at Harry knowingly. "You and Ginny strangely have the same preference for snarky Slytherins. Or were you both just coincidentally happen to be masochistic?"

"I don't have a preference for snarky Slytherins!" Harry argued. He almost threw them the spoon in hand when Hermione and Ron had the same pitiful expression. Even the emotions they display have to be the same. It felt like a blatant mock at his pathetic single arse. "Stop it!"

"Stop what?"

Before Harry could so much as open his mouth, a certain blond came in through the large doors of the Great Hall. Harry stopped what he was doing, spoon and fork clanking loudly against his plate, to stare up at Draco Malfoy. He had his vacant, doll-like persona on, sitting in the Slytherin table primly, talking with his Slytherin chummies.

Harry wondered if Malfoy was affected with what had transpired between them last night as much as Harry did. Did he stayed up awake all night trying to fathom what happened between them just like Harry did? Was he confused? Was he angry when Harry punched him in the face? Was he disgusted with himself after showing vulnerability before his once Gryffindor rival?

Harry has no way of knowing since Draco was great at putting levels of façade. Even if he's starting to tell it's all a pretense, Harry couldn't see through the extent of his disguises. If what he saw in the blond's mesmerizing grey eyes was to be believed as the truth, then Harry, for the life of him, wanted to break down the barricades of Occlumency and see behind the inherent Malfoy mask.

Harry just wanted to know what Draco truly felt. The bit of vulnerability he saw in Draco's grey eyes last night had him intrigued. He was confused why the blond had to put up with this useless doll-like mask. And if Draco was hiding something behind this new vacant persona, Harry wanted nothing but to know every bit of them.

If Hermione and Ron were sharing knowing looks, trying to look discreet, Harry pretended not get angry.

* * *

Ginny was standing on the same spot they used to spent their time together back in sixth year. Ironically, it was also the spot him and Draco had picnicked yesterday.

Harry was hit with a painful nostalgia as he stepped beside her, getting a whiff of her faint floral cologne. Her gentle scent seemed to trigger the memories from those chaste times. Harry recalled the giddy rush of an innocent, fresh relationship before the war had ruthlessly destroyed it. Those times felt like lightyears away; both of them were too young and naive and trying to forget the impending doom that loomed over them. His heart felt heavy in his chest as he encased her in a hug.

"I miss you, Gin," Harry sighed against her auburn hair. They squeezed each other briefly before slowly letting go.

Ginny hadn't physically changed since the last time they both stood under this same tree. She was still the same beautiful and brave girl Harry had fallen for before, with flaring red hair that framed her face perfectly and a strong and assertive personality that Harry loved about her. Even as they stare at each other right now, with the memories of the war and all the chaotic emotions between them, Harry's heart still beat for her glowing smile, seized by the gloomy wistfulness that run into him in waves.

Emotionally... there's obviously an apparent invisible wall between them that both him and Ginny don't know how to breach, too many scars that they don't know how to heal. Maybe that was the reason they just couldn't be together anymore; Harry was in love with her, truly, but they both had been just as unknowing and young.

"We were two different people back then," Harry said pensively. "I wish the war haven't change the way we were before."

And Harry badly wish he still is the way he was before the war, as much as it sounded improbable. There was just too much part of himself that died with him at the Forbidden Forest. The war had pushed him to a certain footing where he was forced to let go of the things that he used to believed in and prompted him to face new perspectives and priorities. And it was just heartbreaking that being with Ginny wasn't one of them.

"I guess I was just too focused on our past together that I forgot we are not the same person we were before," Ginny softly said, eyes glazing as if reminiscing the small time she and Harry shared before circumstances ruined it. There was a sad smile tugging at her lips; not of misery for their lost love but of one filled with regret and longing, not unlike Harry's.

"Mum dropped hints of marriage now and then. She was so eager to make you a part of the family that she failed to see things were not the same as they used to be," Ginny's smile turned rueful. "I guess there was just this constant pressure to be the Hero's wife and everyone neglected to ask me what I like."

"What do _you_ like?" Harry asked.

"I want to be... a professional Quidditch player!" Ginny said enthusiastically. Harry snickered, _of course_ , she'll be a Quidditch player. And a very great one at that, Harry could just see it.

"I can't see my future living up the rest of my life to anybody's expectations," Harry told her, chuckling self-depreciatingly. "I ought to learn my lesson by now."

Being with Ginny felt like a dream. Falling in love with her was easy, being with her seemed to be just what everyone around them expect. But Harry lived his whole life trying to fit into everyone's mold. Being the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One... his fate was decided before he even knew he was a Wizard. And Harry had been dancing right into the hands of the people he thought he could trust, playing into the beat of their stratagem and he was getting tired of that limbo. Harry had loved the assurance and certainty Ginny could offer but even if the prospect of sharing an ideal relationship with her was appealing, Harry knew it would only strain their relationship in the long run.

They won't be happy and Harry just wanted to be happy.

Ginny held Harry's hand comfortingly, "and that's okay. The war's over, you don't have to be the hero anymore! If anyone deserves to be happy, it is you, Harry," She smiled wryly. "I'm really sorry if I might've come off strongly and pressured you to continue where we left off."

"It's okay, Gin. I understand," Harry smiled at her, and for the first time he felt no strain on his face. "It would've been really nice to continue, if it weren't for the circumstances. But we needed that to grow up; and to realize we need to let go of each other."

The relief in Ginny's face was so palpable and infectious that Harry found himself grinning. He felt like the guilt that was weighing heavily in his guts for months was finally relieved, his chest brimming with warmth.

"So Parkinson," Harry made it sound casual, but the teasing tone had somehow slipped out of his nonchalance.

For the first time in their years of friendship, Ginny's face flushed, coloring almost like her hair. Harry didn't realize she could blush that wildly, and he was hit with a brotherly protectiveness that was so distinct from the feeling he got when he saw her and Dean kissing in sixth year. Harry was glad he felt like a brother seeing his younger sister fawning over the person she fancied. If nothing else, it only attested to his true feelings for Ginny, and he was relieved to know it was certainly more brotherly and platonically than anything else.

"I—We—" she stuttered, looking anywhere but Harry. "She helped me last year, everytime I got Crucio'd."

"They Crucio'd you?" Harry asked, angered. They were assured by Nigellus Black that Ginny wasn't punished. "I thought you were-" 

"We all were tortured in some ways. Specially if we went against the Carrows' orders," Ginny said, sighing. "And... Pansy was there. She used to gave me chocolates to make me feel better every time I got Crucio'd by one of the Slytherins. It got worse that she had to heal some bruises and cuts when I was punished everytime I refused to torture some first and second years."

She stared at the black lake, watching a tentacle rippling the surface of the peaceful water, eyes glassy. "Of course everyone was wary of Slytherins that time. There was no way of knowing her intentions so I was initially suspicious, and just like the stupid Gryffindor that I was, I called her all sorts of names. But she stayed, somehow knowing where I've gone to, bringing hot chocolates every time. Until..." Ginny sighed once more. "We almost got caught by one of the Carrows. She... she told me to stay hidden behind one of the tapestry and presented herself. She was _Crucio'd_ just inches away from me."

She stared up at Harry, her expression musing, "no Slytherins had ever jumped at anyone's defense other than their own, more so for a Gryffindor, and willingly take the brunt of a punishment."

There was brief silence that descended upon them. At the far distance, he could hear the distinct quack of ducklings by the river and the echoes of laughter from the fifth year students at the edge of the forest. Harry was confused what to feel about that. Before he came to Hogwarts, he was given a biased concept of what a Slytherin constituted: _there's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin_. When he came to the magical school Harry was one of the people to label them mini-Death Eaters in training. They were selfish, egoistic, bullies who bring down other people for their own enjoyment, and blood purists. Harry didn't knew when his views changed. Maybe it was that time he saw Draco breaking down in Myrtle's bathroom before he sliced him with an unknown curse. Or when he realized Draco couldn't even properly torture other people even at the threat of his own life. Or when Draco didn't identify him at the manor.

"So Malfoy," Ginny suddenly said. Harry looked at her, protest at the tip of his tongue, but the words never left when he saw the look of guilt on her face. Even her voice was filled with remorse. "I've already knew that not all Slytherins are inherently evil; I unbelievably make friends with one of them. But every time I saw Malfoy, I remember Bill's scarred face and Fred..."

Ginny's voice cracked at the mention of him, even Harry's stomach twisted in anguish, "I was so harsh on Malfoy but I was still grieving, I missed Fred and, you know, we do stupid things when we feel grief."

Harry was briefly reminded of the time in fifth year when he asked Nearly Headless Nick if Sirius could somehow come back as a ghost. Thinking about it now, it seemed a little barmy but he was angry and in sorrow then. Harry truly understood where Ginny came.

"It felt cathartic to blame Malfoy for Bill's condition and Fred's death. It was easier to put the blame on him. He tormented you for years, dragging my family, letting the Death Eaters enter Hogwarts; my anger and pain was somehow justified. But then... Malfoy apologized."

Harry whipped his head to look at Ginny, so fast he thought his neck would snap. He couldn't decide whether to believe that bit. Harry had saved him from the Fiendfyre and gave the Wizengamot a testimony to acquit Draco and Narcissa but Harry had not received so much as a thank you for what he'd done. Not that he was expecting any. But Harry couldn't imagine Draco saying sorry. A stiff and formal thank you Draco could probably muster. But owning up to his mistakes and apologizing?

Harry made a face at Ginny. She laughed and slapped his stomach, "for someone who fancied Draco, you sure are putting him on a lower pedestal."

Harry shoved her in turn, forgetting that she has a lither form than Ron. She almost toppled over. "Why does everybody think I fancy that pointy git! That's just ridiculous."

"Ridiculous. So let's just forget all the sleepless nights stalking Draco in sixth year on the Marauder's map. But you're not ready for that discussion, are you?" Ginny teased. Before Harry could do more than argue, her face turned serious. "Malfoy came to me earlier after the Quidditch game. He apologized for the things he said about my family, for what happened to Bill and Fred. He offered assistance, if I need some. And I just felt tired at that moment. Tired of blaming him for something out of his control. Tired of the grief, of thinking about the people who were dead. And Malfoy was there, trying so hard to be a decent human for once, and I just can't be the one, no matter how I've hated him in the past, to not give him a chance; someone who was born entitled and unfamiliar to the concept of apologizing."

Harry stared unseeingly into the heavily gloomy skies and wondered why it was too hard for him to wrap his head around Draco owning up to his mistakes. Maybe Harry was just too hard on Draco, too judgmental. But he knew the blond for too long, and Draco Malfoy's head was too far up his ass to even ask for forgiveness.

Or Harry thought he knew Draco Malfoy.

Harry remembered the Draco that was crying in Myrtle's bathroom, the Draco that was sobbing in his chest last night. He was hit with the realization that he didn't knew Draco at all. Malfoy, the stuck up, egotistical git, he knew. Draco was a different person.

And it disconcerted him.

"Are you done being sappy with your _ex-girlfriend_ , Potter?" A shrilly, sarcastic voice sounded behind him. Pansy Parkinson stood there, face soured in disgust. With Draco Malfoy beside her.

Malfoy's expressionless eyes focused on his and Ginny's entwined hands. For absolutely no reason, Harry hastily disconnected his hand from Ginny's. He thought he heard her snicker, but chose to ignore it.

"Don't sound so jealous, Pans. It sounded so unlike you," Ginny snipped back, but her eyes twinkled in amazement.

Harry can't believe his luck. He thought Ron and Hermione were worse, then there's Neville and Nott, and Seamus and Dean became unnecessarily obnoxious lately. On top of that, Ginny had someone she can share gooey eyes with, and Harry was left alone to be sick for his lovesick friends' mushy displays.

"Er," Harry interrupted. "If you plan to do whatever nauseating things that lovers do please not in front of me, thank you."

"Poor Potter," Parkinson chuckled, sounding pleased for Harry's expanse. "Quite bereft of a lover, aren't you? It would be a pleasure to show you what me and Ginny—"

"Please Pansy, give the guy a break," Ginny said, holding her hands and pulling her towards the castle. "We're _busy_ , right? There are a lot of things you could use your mouth other than snarking at my ex."

Harry stared at their enthusiastic retreating bodies in disbelief and he was thankful not to be Ron at the moment. Harry turned to Draco, still standing in front of him. He felt nervous, his voice suddenly deserted him.

Draco's blond hair was messy and whipped by the wind. It was the first time Harry find Draco's hair so mussed up. He was wearing a Slytherin green sweater with streaks of black and silver on the sides. Harry's throat worked up at the sight of the blond's sharp shoulder and collar bones peaking out as the neckline of his cashmere sweater fell off his shoulder. It was an odd sight, Draco daring to look so comfortable and so distinct from his usual formal, pompous robes. He looked so delicate and beautiful.

And it baffled Harry so much why he would look at Draco and see a beautiful man rather than the pointy git that loved to sneer and snarl at him every chance he get. Because this is beyond normal, he should not be looking at Draco and describe him as beautiful. He should not even find Draco pleasing to look at.

But Harry did, he looked at Draco because Draco was a pleasant sight, soft blond hair dancing in the wind and beautiful blush flushing his cheeks and nose.

"Why are you here?" Harry asked, wincing when his voice came out squeaky. Draco stared at him, vacantly.

"Am I not allowed to be here?" Draco asked.

"Of course, you're allowed," Harry immediately said when Draco was about to leave. "Just asking. I mean, you're just standing there. I thought you need something."

Draco walked up beside him and just stared at the lake. Harry turned around to face the lake but all he wanted to do was face Draco and looked at him.

Which should not be appropriate. But he wanted to anyway. And Harry just stood there, beside Draco, too tensed to make a move, warmth spreading in his belly, wondering if every moment with Draco Malfoy will always be this awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love ginny & harry's friendship. though i was initially a hinny shipper, but i love them as just friends who grew up and realize they were different than they used to be. 
> 
> awkward drarry is my religion :(( they're so cute :((
> 
> this is so overdue & i was under the weather when i wrote some parts, so i feel it was kinda all over the place but i rlly tried. & thank you so much for the kudos and comments. i love u all somuch :))


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk what to make of this chapter. i dont normally like to write a chapter heavy on emotions but this needs to be done... i felt like i've overdone this chapter but at the same time i think something is seriously lacking. pls forgive me in advance im not really good at these things
> 
> just a heads up, this chapter is emotionally heavy (?) and depressing. pls be guided. & the kudos and comments are deeply appreciated! keep em coming hehe :)

Harry didn't wonder why he dreamed of Voldemort last night. Or why the green light of the Avada Kedavra curse had pricked his eyelids even after waking up. 

He had never dreamt of Voldemort so vividly since the month after the war. There are times, of course, when he dreamt of the past—Voldemort resurrecting for the second time, ultimately killing everyone that he loved and taking over the whole Wizarding world—though not as persisting as being locked back in his cupboard and the faces of his dead loved ones, distorted and grotesque. The days leading up to Halloween were quite exceptional, even at death Voldemort never failed to haunt him, and Harry was stuck watching his parents died repeatedly before him in a limbo.

His sheets wound around his body when he awoke, gasping and writhing. Nightmares always virtually intensified the feeling of being trapped in the event, his body wracked with spasms, bile rushed to his throat but his body too tired to muster the strength to throw up. Maybe he would die of asphyxiation this time, who knows.

Harry slept at 1 A.M., ruthlessly woken up by a nightmare half an hour later, and he stayed staring at his ceiling until the light of the rising sun slipped through the flimsy curtains, enveloping the whole room with the early heat. Harry wanted to curl deeper under his covers, desperate to get some sleep. Getting through the whole day without a wink of sleep was bad enough on a normal day. Harry just wanted to get swallowed up by his bed and never to emerge back again.

"Mate," Ron called from his bed. Harry blearily peeked under his blanket. "Fancy to get some breakfast? I could bring some back up here, if you like."

Harry swallowed before he replied, "no, it's fine. I'll be down."

And Harry had to get through the day, his nerves frayed, his shoulders tensed as if straining under some added weight. There was a constant pang of ache behind his eyelids that had his face contorting in an incessant frown. The sounds and insignificant murmurs from the people around him were heightened, grating on his sleep-deprived mind.

The only upside to this emotional dispirit he seemed so incline to be under every time Halloween comes near was his friends' considerate distance.

It's not that Harry doesn't appreciate their presence. He went through so much with Ron and Hermione, they were his first family and if there are people who deserved to know what Harry is feeling right now, it would be the two of them. But there are just days that even the barest of human contact is just too unbearable for him and he just wanted to be left alone to brood with himself.

It was just fortunate that after the war, Hermione and Ron had been understanding of his unpredictable moods. If this were in fifth year, they would be all over him, it would be hard enough for Harry to shrug them off his back, and if he did he'll end up snapping at them and straining their friendship. But Hermione had only given him a motherly kiss on his cheek and got a gentle, matey side-hug from Ron before walking towards the Great Hall, understandably giving him his well-needed distance. They still stayed beside him, asking him if he preferred pancakes or eggs and toast, but they didn't barrage him with invasive questions when Harry merely shook his head dully. And for the first time since they decided to be together again, Ron and Hermione respectfully avoided any arguments, no furtive whispering and cloying glances on top of their books. And Harry deeply appreciated their effort to give him consideration.

* * *

Potions was hell for Harry, as usual. And it was even worse as Snape made it his everyday-goal to torment Harry. Even after knowing Snape had proven to be one of the essential figures that fought for the Light and had been a spy to protect him, Harry still had unresolved, buried grudges for the Potions Master for his tyrannical and unprofessional behavior throughout Harry's entire time at Hogwarts. Despite their roles during the war, Harry and Snape still senselessly loathed each other and Harry doesn't think it would start to change any moment. It was probably one of the few things that was fundamentally unchangeable after the war and will stay that way through the unforeseeable future.

Unless if Snape miraculously decided to be rational for once, realize that Harry and James Potter are two entirely different persons and learn to bury his childish grievances.

Snape was already speaking in front of the eighth year Gryffindors and Slytherins when Harry entered the Potions classroom. Snape looked at him, dark eyes narrowing and lips curling in disdain.

"Good for you to graze us with your _noble_ presence, Mr Potter," he drawled. "No matter your preeminent distinction I would prefer you deign to be a punctual student in my class for once. 10 points from Gryffindor."

Harry offered none of his usual dry retorts, neither had he so much as look at Snape's direction. He went straight to the empty chair beside Hermione. Before he could touch his arse on the seat though, Snape loomed over him.

"As you have not able to make it on time, Mr Potter, I ordered everyone to go sit in pairs. I recalled that Ms Granger isn't your partner."

Harry belatedly realized that everyone sat beside their partners. Harry found Malfoy the only student not staring at him, sitting in the front row, his back ramrod straight. Harry pulled himself and walked to sit beside the blond. Snape continued his discussion.

"Before we were so rudely interrupted," Snape pointedly said, glaring at Harry. "I was asking you if you all had started on your projects," the students nodded their head, "then I will have to check on your accounts and see what progress you made on your first week. Hand me your parchments."

Harry could practically hear the collective gulps in apprehension from the whole class when they saw the sadistic glint in the Professor's eyes. Harry wondered what they've written on their accounts of the potion for them to get nervous about. He had written what he wanted Snape to read under the influence of the potions, like _wanting to skin Snape's slimy ass and feed it to the giant squid_ or _wanting to shave Malfoy's obnoxiously beautiful blond hair at the same time wanting to snuggle closer to him_ (he had wanted to erase that part but, _damn the greasy dungeon bat_ , the parchment that he provided to jot down their experience on was charmed for the writer to express what they sincerely felt and thought under the potions). Some were intense but not too inappropriate.

" _The Sedatus Potion nearly had the same effects like the Draught of Euphoria_ ," Snape recited from one of the parchments. "Hm, _prompted me to do things for the other person regardless of consent_..." at that Snape raised an eyebrow at Hermione. She raised his chin in defiance. " _This potion is not safe as it placed a compromising position for the drinker... hinting at slavery..._ "

Snape sneered at Hermione. "Slavery? I have you know, Ms Granger, that this potion had underwent multiple clinical trials for two years and hereby presenting no harm of enslavement—"

"But how can you be so sure when the Sedatus is highly dependable on the Augmentare?" Hermione hotly interrupted. "Augmentare is a versatile potion, relying on the brewer's emotions and subject to inconsistency—"

"You seem to be forgetting my position here, Ms Granger," Snape said maliciously. "I have years of complex study regarding potions as a Master of my area of expertise. The variations of Histrionicus Potions are my own crafting and tested by trained professionals. While you have the propensity to exert your... vast knowledge about certain things but your textbook opinions aren't always welcomed."

Hermione soundly closed her mouth when Parkinson pinched her side as she opened her mouth for another on her dogmatic tangents. She seethed in her chair and Parkinson offered to comfort her with a wry pat on her shoulder.

Snape perused another parchment. This time, he didn't read the contents out loud. The angry thinning of his lips and the sharp glare he directed at Nott and Neville were enough telltale of what racy things the pair had written.

"I would appreciate a little sense of discretion and avoid divulging the harrowing details of your abominable rendezvous next time."

There was a chorus of snickers and catcalls throughout the room. Harry was reminded of the scene last Friday night, Nott going down on Neville. He snorted at the identical flustered looks on the pair's faces.

After Snape silenced them, he proceeded to the next pair. At the malevolent look in Snape's eyes, Harry knew that it was theirs' even before Snape ruthlessly read their accounts.

" _I wanted to punch the pointy git's face but I felt so weak under his bloody soothing voice... I felt so relax around Harry and oddly drawn to his blazing, green eyes... I wanted nothing more than to humiliate Harry but he was clinging unto me like an imprudent, indecorous cave man... Draco had the most beautiful silver eyes that I've seen, why can't I stare away..._ " Snape slammed their paper down on the table and curled his lips. "For some reason, this is worse than Messrs Nott and Longbottom's accounts."

Harry's face was hot, fisting his robes and wanted nothing than to destroy Snape's pinched face. It was not their fucking fault. It had been the Slimy Potions Professor's own sadistic and irrational choices that had them drinking the potions and recording their experiences on a bloody charmed paper!

"I wonder who's fault is that," Harry said sotto voce but Snape heard this somehow, glaring down at Harry and taking five points off Gryffindor. Harry's scowled deepened.

He couldn't help but to chance a look at Malfoy and his stomach tightened delightfully at the sight of Malfoy's flushed face.

Harry tuned out Snape's useless blubbering and focused on the alluring flustered sight of Draco Malfoy. He just couldn't help it after all.

* * *

"There is certainly an issue of consent concerning the Histrionicus Potions," Hermione said assertively, lips pursing in a determined line Harry had seen countless of times during her S.P.E.W. discourse. After they were dismissed from Potions class, most students sporting flushed faces in either annoyance or embarrassment, the Trio had went straight to the eighth year Common Room, lounging by the fire, and wondering what to do for the entire free afternoon. Or in Hermione's case, laying out her dogmas regarding inequality.

"I couldn't believe Snape have not care to fix such compromising imprecision!" She continued, bushy hair getting wilder as she attempted to flip it before falling back down her face. "For whatever clinical trials he had boasted, this project seemed to be bordering on slavery. He disregarded the discrepancies of the human emotions and how it would be an antecedent for jeopardizing the person's constitutional rights to autonomy!"

Ron stared at her with a gaping expression, enamored eyes wide with sickening amount of fondness and affection. When Hermione looked at him cogently, he tried to arrange his face to one of noncommittal.

"What do you expect from Snape, Hermione? Do you really not think he'd left the _discrepancy_ intentionally?" At Hermione's stern glare, Ron rushed to add, "why haven't you voiced this before? We would've been saved from being _enslaved_ by the Slytherins too early."

"I wasn't aware that the Slytherins were an inconvenience to you, King Weasley," Pansy Parkinson suddenly appeared, inviting herself to sit beside Hermione. Upon catching on the reference, Ron reached across Hermione to slap the back of Parkinson's head. She swiftly swerved from the attack. "And for your information, we were as much a slave as you mighty Gryffindors were, so don't feel so special."

"It's not even slavery, per se," Zabini drawled, sprawled on the loveseat opposite Harry's, looking bored. "Both the participants were under variations of emotion-stimulating and -repressing potions, but there is a power balance between the two as their emotions are congruous to each other."

Hermione's eyes took on a determined glint, and Harry suppressed a sigh for he knew what will progress next before Hermione could open her mouth.

" _That_ is the discrepancy. This potion relies solely on emotions. And human emotions are subject to error; inconsistent, _volatile_. Variables which are essentially changeable should not be a groundwork for Potions that could potentially promote the violation of rights between the involved parties."

"There is no violation of rights when both the Augmentare and the Sedatus are variations of the same specialty of potion," Zabini countered, his lazy posture stiffening. "The effect of the Sedatus to the drinker counters the amplified emotions of the other person involved, and while the Augmentare can be quite volatile, the person could do no harm to the other because of the 'mediating factor' of the Sedatus, which neutralizes the amplified emotions and causes the drinker of the Augmentare to submit."

"Which is why it could very well be a compromising grounds for both the pair," Hermione said, her voice going a tad bit tetchier. "Since the potions solely target emotions, and emotions are already subjected to constant change as they are, the potions could propel the participants to do things without consent and will power, and yield to the others' commands that could possibly encourage nonconsensual exploits between them."

"It is highly inappropriate and assuming to suggest nonconsensual matters to foster—"

"The drinkers are vulnerable and unknowing!—"

"We are not blitzed out! The potions have no effects like the Draught of Euphoria or any substance that could addle the mind. I remember being completely sober—"

That was the last thing Harry heard before he slammed the door of their dorm room shut. He cradled his temple, nursing a blooming headache from all the misguided arguments and counterarguments that he was sure made no sense brawling over. They should've argued on whether Snape appeared to have gone around the bend. Harry jumped into his bed, arms folded behind his head and looked up at the ceiling.

Harry supposed both Hermione and Zabini were somehow right and wrong. He had personally felt constantly waging war with himself under the Augmentare, conflicted with the need to rage or just yield. Though the Sedatus had a relaxing effect, there was an incessant tug to do things for Malfoy to calm down. But instead of feeling like it was unnatural and forced, they felt like they were his own.

Harry was just starting to doze when a knock on the door resounded through the dorm room. He glared at the door, wondering who in their right minds to knock after years of seeing each other naked and walking in on a hand under their pants.

"Why would... just get the fuck in," Harry exasperatedly said, closing his eyes. The door to the room creaked, the sounds of the rhubarb below wafted abruptly through the slight opening, before it was close. There was a pause, then tentative steps padded across the floor only to stopped near him.

Harry frowned. He blearily opened one eye, bolting out of his bed as he saw Malfoy looming over him by his bedside. _What the fuck_.

"What are you doing here?" He stammered, slightly off-kilter seeing Malfoy standing there, _bare-footed_. Harry found himself unable to look away at the blond's calf and ankle and the knobbly toes with perfectly shaped nails.

"We should be working on our potions right about now," Malfoy said. Harry's eyes snapped up to him, shifting his feet awkwardly. Malfoy tilted his head. "Are you alright, Potter? We can postpone it tomorrow if you want—"

"No," Harry replied. "It's okay, I just..." his eyes discreetly traveled down to Malfoy's feet, his cheeks flushing as he stared back up at the other's face. "Why aren't you wearing your shoes? Barefoot is disgusting."

Malfoy's eyes slightly widened, though Harry almost didn't see the infinitesimal change in Malfoy's impassive face. But Harry saw the shock, and he looked down to see Malfoy's toes curling, as if repulsed and wanting to dig against the ground and hide themselves.

"It's cold, I liked the cold," Malfoy said in a soft voice, almost sounding meek and coy, though nothing escaped his heavily guarded eyes. Harry turned around, huffing out a weary sigh.

"Wait for me in the Common Room. And wear some bloody shoes," Harry gritted. There was a muffled padding across the floor before the door opened then closed.

Harry sighed once again, the tight knots in his stomach unloosing, wondering to himself when he start getting so uncomfortable in the presence of Malfoy so much that it renders him inarticulate.

And why did he find Malfoy's naked feet so fucking alluring, of all things?

* * *

Harry's murky Augmentare Histrionicus obviously resembled what he was currently feeling. And it was no wonder. Harry was downcast the entire brewing process, weary and monotonously moving along their workbench, too detach from the present that he was astonished he brewed his Augmentare right and not blowing up the whole cauldron. It was through Malfoy's mercy that they had to imbibe their potions the next day.

Though it doesn't really make any difference, just postponing his impending suffering. The next day came, November 1st, Harry felt even more catatonic and run-down, body falling into lassitude, as if sitting through his entire Charms class had taken all his energy and now he's completely drained—of sheer power to get through this hell or generally of living his life, he didn't know. He felt the bone-deep exhaustion that even deciding if taking the potion would be a good idea or not was a grueling task.

Harry had not slept. For days now. There were times he almost did, almost falling into the unconsciousness that his body had craved for days— _months_ , until he was jerked awake when the dank and claustrophobically narrow space of his cupboard or the piercing green of the Killing curse assaulted his senses. There was nothing to do than to lay in his bed, his listless body morosely longing for even just minutes of sleep that his high-strung, restless mind was too selfish to give. Harry climb out of bed with his muscles tauten and his sense of sight violated with the floating sparkles in the air that he was sure everyone but him wasn't aware of.

He sighed wearily, weariness carving deep in the lines of his face. He eyed the soppy potion inside the corked tube, then looked at Malfoy, who was surprisingly looking at him with unguarded, _earnest_ eyes. The grey orbs appraising him with consideration that Harry thought Malfoy already drank his potion. But his tube was still full, held between his long fingers. Malfoy looking at him like that when he was completely compos mentis was different, and all together overwhelming, than under the influence of the Sedatus. Harry's breath quickened.

"It's okay if you don't prefer to begin right now. I understand," Malfoy told him. "Maybe we can lay over it until—"

"Until what?" Harry interrupted, harsher than he intended, looking anywhere but Malfoy, heart beating loudly in his throat. "It wouldn't really make it more bearable if we continue holding off, would it?"

He should really stop and consider his behavior. But it was the reason why he wanted minimal to no human interaction during one of his "under the weather" days. He couldn't bear the guilt of snapping and raging at anyone who was intentionally just concerned. But sympathy had always grated on his nerves, and the look on Malfoy's face, the wary gentleness, had Harry feeling nauseated.

"Let's just get on with this," Harry grumbled, pulling the tube to his mouth and tipping back his head.

* * *

Harry's childhood was fucked up; he had Voldemort and his wretched relatives (and if he was really being honest, Dumbledore) to thank for that. He had years of constantly biting his tongue to the point of bleeding when being told the infamous nicknames he had as a child, holding back the whimpers of pain after a fateful day with Dudley and his crew, holding back the screams of terror after a nightmare.

And it didn't left him till this very day. The traumatic assaults, gaslighting words, degradation and the ridicule he was subjected under throughout his childhood and adolescence had left a permanent, potentially incurable mark on his psyche, as what the mind-healer had so uselessly supplied. His desensitization to pain and fear had not been because of his Gryffindorian bravery, neither his being dull and over-all incognizant to the feelings of another person was the reason why he thought Cho Chang was a whinging, blubbering bint.

Not being able to cry after witnessing the deaths of Cedric and Sirius and so many others during the war was, apparently, not normal and an indicative of a deeper, sinister psychological scar.

Harry could still hear the resonating words of Vernon Dursley, podgy face reddening apoplectically, warning him _not_ _to_ _utter a single pathetic sound out or he'd be locked inside his cupboard without food and water, for one straight week_ , when he was five. And even if it was too farfetched for a warning, Harry believed him because he had been inside the cupboard, starved and too close to dehydration, for three days at worse. There was no reason they couldn't do it for seven days, could they? And Harry hadn't utter a _single pathetic sound_ , a cry for help or mourn in grief, ever. Even if he had seen his godfather slipped through a bloody veil right before his eyes.

There had been no time to grieve because of the war. And after all had been said and done, he still can't.

Not too good on the emotional aspect, was what his mind-healer diagnosed. Years of repressed emotions had reduced his ability to feel them. And, of course, diminished his sense of self-preservation. Hence all the stupid self-destructive streak.

Harry closed his eyes, as the onslaught of feelings he forgot he had assaulted him all at once. Lungs burning with the violent sorrow, a pathetic drive to whimper clawing at his throat to be freed, Harry about-turn as he heard Malfoy inhaled. He desperately clamped on the urge to sob, blinking fast at the prickling of his eyelids, unshed tears blurring his sight.

This was what scared Harry. The idea of being vulnerable and exposed. Suppressing his emotions was a default reaction, and he quashed down all the potentially compromising sentimentalities for a reason. _He was not weak_ , and feeling this pathetic emotions just alluded to that.

"Po—"

"Let's just," Harry managed to croak, throat grainy and painfully heavy, "get back to the dorm."

Malfoy didn't said anything as Harry led the way out of the Room of Requirements. Trudging along the corridors of Hogwarts proved to be an arduous task, Harry realized, as a group of Hufflepuffs and younger Gryffindors flocked him,that even two months into the term hadn't waned. There was a shockingly relieved cry that bubbled out of him at the feel of Malfoy's hand on his, directing him away from the crowd and helping him navigate through the halls with ease and grace, as expected of the blond.

Harry didn't even try to keep up with Draco's steps, just let him get dragged toward the eighth year tower. The havoc of mental dolefulness and heavy dread slammed into him full force, making him dizzy and distressed. His chest breathed in and expanded, air sharp against his sternum. Harry didn't even register the buzzing in his ears until he was surrounded with what he knew were voices but distorted, as they reached the eight year Common Room.

"Harry?" The tentative voice, it's Hermione's. But Harry felt like his head was plunged deep under water, and her echoing voice seemed distance away, until he couldn't decipher the jumble of indistinct sounds that surrounded him, gradually fading in the background as the sharp buzz and whizz filled his ears, like a colony of wasps droning about. He find it hard to breathe.

"Potter," someone's voice called, "Harry. Harry, can you hear me?"

The odd sensations in his ears incrementally vanished; Harry grasped the soothing lilt of the voice, he recognized as Draco's, that tried to coax him out of the overwhelming deluge of emotions that swamped over him. He took shaky breaths, hand on his shoulder and another on his face trying to ground him and Harry focused on that calming feeling, until his fuzzy eyes cleared and it zoomed on Draco's face, eyes clear and open and gently urging.

Gulping a fortifying air, Harry felt like being pulled out of the waves of emotions, can vaguely sense the softness of silk under him and the dip of his bed beside him which Draco had occupied. The fog around his eyes clearing, belatedly realizing they were tears. He had no recollections of getting inside the Gryffindor dorm room, probably led by Draco. But Harry was thankful Draco managed to get his friends off his back, proving they tended to be tenacious regarding his welfare.

Harry realized, with a dawning horror, that he doesn't want Ron and Hermione to see him in this state, no matter how much he trusted them. Ironically, Draco Malfoy, his rival which he shared a seven-year history of animosity with, was on his bed, just beseeched him out of his emotional melt down. Harry stared unseeingly at Draco Malfoy talking gently to him, his words went unheard to Harry.

Draco saw him in his most vulnerable, which Harry didn't normally blazoned on to anybody else, even to his most closest, much less to his past schoolboy rival. Harry supposed he should be scared; should feel raw and exposed. Malfoy would probably use this to tear him down even more, insult and taunt him.

But he was no more Malfoy; at least for Harry. The Malfoy Harry knew was just one of the many masks that Draco inherently wore, probably a defense mechanism or to build a statement for himself. The Draco in front of Harry, even though layered with so many sides Harry is yet to discover, is not the Malfoy that sputtered Pureblood ideals and mock anyone base on their appearance, blood, and wealth.

And Harry, strangely enough, is not afraid. Whether it be because he felt compelled under Draco's gentle eyes or it was indicative of something deeper that warrant introspection, Harry felt warm for the first time; not just physically, but it came down deep inside of him, under all the amplified sorrow and grief, a bubble of warmth surfaced. Draco's eyes were like a safe space, and he realize he could just feel whatever bloody emotions that were intensified by the potion, Harry knew, just by looking at Draco, that it's completely alright to feel them.

"Harry?" Draco called. Harry snapped up to look at him. Draco is staring back at him expectantly, a hand tentatively cradled his side of face. Almost instinctively, Harry leaned into the warmth, relieved.

"I'm okay, just," Harry said, shifting under the covers and laying on his side. He turned his head slightly to Draco, who was raising his eyebrows. "Lay down beside me. Please."

Harry curled lightly to himself, and Draco fit behind him snuggly, his chest to Harry's back and knees folding behind the Gryffindor's. Harry tensed briefly before he gradually melted against the blond's chest, their shoulders aligning. This was the feeling of being held, of being pulled closer, of having the warmth of a body behind you, another person's arm around your torso; and it's entirely a piece of small heaven that Harry was missing out on his entire life.

All those times of being trapped, alone, inside his musty and cramped cupboard under the stairs, he had always imagined how it was like to have someone beside him, holding him tight, keeping the nightmares away. The thought of having someone with him there was probably the only thing that got him through those dark times, continuously wishing that it were true.

Until he resigned to the fact that he will always be alone, trapped in his cupboard, with no food and water and a companion to keep him safe. Harry grew up without the experience of having someone holding him close for assurance and mollycoddling him just like what Petunia did to Dudley. And Harry, now older, felt uncomfortable at the barest human touch and being inquisitive and unsettled at the smallest hints of other people's kindness.

However, as Harry was engulfed in Draco's warmth, the other's chest expanding against his back as Draco breathed, puffs of air lightly tickling the back of his neck, Harry realized that he had never felt so content, so at _ease_ ; he had wanted this, and he never knew how he badly did until this very moment, cocooned in Draco's scent that he never wished to be rid of ever again.

With a heavy, plaintive sigh, Harry scooted even closer to Draco, relieved to hear the rumble of his chest as Draco chuckled against the top of his head.

"It doesn't do you any good to dwell on bad thoughts, Harry," Draco said, as if sensing where the path of his thoughts went to.

"It's the bloody potion," Harry mumbled, mind going blissfully fuzzy on the edges. He wanted to sleep. And maybe he can, with Draco's heavenly arms around him.

"The reason why I'm here," Draco told him. "Tell me what you think, Harry."

Harry liked the sound of his name on Draco's mouth. "Do you seriously want to hear what's on my mind?" He asked haltingly. "It wouldn't be any good."

"Then what do you feel?" Draco said after a moment. Harry blearily blinked his eyes, staring unseeingly at his bed hangings.

"You're not seriously gonna psychoanalyze me or something."

"I'm surprise you knew psychoanalyze in the first place, considering you're not really big on the linguistic department," Draco said in humor, chuckling at the top of his head. The sound resonated through Harry, blinking back the prickling in his eyes.

"All you do is bully me," Harry said, wanting to sound humorous but his voice cracked in the end, coming off a croaked confession, tone heavily laced with hurt. Harry gulped as Draco tightened his hold on him, enough to convey what he felt: regret, grudging acknowledgement. Something akin to apology, but not quite. "I'm sorry. I just..."

"I know," Draco softly said. His lips lingered for a moment against Harry's nape, and Harry shivered at the intimate gesture. "It's foolish of me, but it's the only way I knew to get your attention. It worked, but not the intended result."

Harry shifted and Draco loosened his hold. Harry turned around to face him, and he was hit with a paroxysm of emotion as he looked at those shockingly bright, grey eyes; looking at Draco was a heartbreakingly beautiful exploit, an intense melancholic longing weighing heavily in his heart. He was simultaneously feeling like he could cry in happiness and laugh in disbelief as he stared into Draco's gentle orbs; eyes like the waves of the ocean, lapping at him—rivetingly, enticingly—drowning him, little by little.

Harry slowly shook his head. He didn't think it's appropriate to talk about their tangled past, potentially destroying the temporary peace and contentment between them. Harry loved this limited safe space, _please_ let him feel safe, a little bit sad and sullen but safe and warm, in Draco's arms for just a few hours.

As if reading his thoughts, Draco nodded tolerantly with a small piteous smile and pulled Harry closer. He brought his arms around Harry's torso and his other arm under Harry's neck, their legs twining under the sheets. Harry can feel Draco's chest falling and rising as he breathed, nose against his neck and drinking in Draco's lovely scent—a weird yet addicting tangy smell of citrus and cinnamon —and the sensations alone helped Harry calm down.

"I'd never... never held this way. Before," he blurted out after a moment of silence. Draco's hand came up to stroke through his hair comfortingly. "I wish—this feels great. So great." He choked on a sob, internally hating himself for being so pathetically sensitive, but when Draco's hands brushed through his hair like that, gentle and coaxing, he couldn't help it.

"My mother..." Draco paused, hesitating, then continued. "She held me. Like this. Sang to me when I was a kid. Held me during the stormy nights, and felt her kiss on my forehead when she thought I was sleeping. It stopped when I was seven and told her I was big enough not to be treated like a baby. I wish I hadn't. I... missed those."

Harry let a tear fell, then another, until he was outright crying on Draco's neck, not caring if he sullied his cashmere sweater or sounded like a pathetic, sniveling wimp. He brought back all the thoughts about his mother; his wishes of having Lily to sing him lullaby when he cried himself awake, scolding him when he dirty his clothes, telling him bedtime stories, kissing him on his forehead and hugging him to sleep. He remembered being envious of Ron for having Molly cook for him, being jealous of Draco for having Narcissa indulged him with presents, even being angry at Dudley for having a mother that tolerated her awful, bratty attitude. And there Harry was, in a cupboard, underfed, without a single memory of his parents—saved for his mum's scream just before she was killed—and without a way of knowing how it felt like to have one since they are both dead.

Draco just held him tighter, lips near his ear, whispering words that were lost on Harry. Harry gripped the front of Draco's shirt, swamped with excruciating agony, wheezing and choking at the heavily nauseating lump in his throat.

"Why did you stopped her?" Harry said, sniffing.

"You know what I was. A bratty, self-assured, seven-year-old who wanted to be treated less like a child and more of an independent young man," Draco snickered self-deprecatingly. He sighed and softly called him. "Harry." He cupped Harry's neck to pull his head back. Harry let himself be pulled, staring at the blurry outline of Draco's face. He vaguely felt Draco's fingers swiping at the tears on his face; his bawling mellowed down into silent hiccups. "Harry."

"Yes," Harry answered, voice bleat and hoarse. They stared at each other, Draco's eyes filled with emotions Harry was too frazzled to comprehend. Harry's mind was oddly empty, like a dam that had just been broken. Drained. Draco's eyes were coaxing, he realized. "I want..."

"You want?" Draco gently urged after Harry fell silent.

"I want to sleep," Harry quietly replied. Draco nodded his head. "I haven't slept for days." At Draco's sympathetic eyes, he added, "it's Halloween. I don't sleep on Halloween."

"I gathered," Draco said. He wiped the remaining tear tracts on Harry's face and nodded. "Then I will let you sleep."

"I'm not sure I will," Harry told him, traces of fear contorting his face. Draco cupped his face. Harry stared at his beseeching eyes.

"I will let you sleep," he repeated, more firmly. Harry didn't know if he could, but the assurance in Draco's voice invoked a wave of solace.

Harry nodded his head, appeased at the somber look in Draco's eyes. Harry placed his head on the other's chest, the faintest of his heartbeat like a rhythm of hypnotic lullaby in Harry's ears. Arm thrown over Draco's torso, Harry closed his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updating using my phone was actually so shitty im going to probably come back to this soon when i fix my laptop. in the meantime, i have this pt.2 of the past chapter for y’all :))
> 
> thank u so much for the comments and kudos!!!! xx

Harry’s thick and long lashes curved against the dark circles below his lower eyelids, fluttering slightly. They were depressed lowly, the dark purplish hollows that surrounded his eyes, giving off the impression of sleeplessness and exhaustion, which was, going by what Harry said earlier, likely to be true. Apparently, for days now.

Harry’s skin had darkened a few shades over the summer since the last time Draco had seen him during the trials; he was unhealthily pale before, a perfect representation of someone that just emerged out of a war, but the summer had done Harry good. Draco wondered what he was up to during the months after the war to had such a glorious tan, probably wrenching out gnomes at the back garden of the Weasley residence. Draco snickered lightly at the visual.

Days leading up to Halloween, however, Draco observed Harry’s healthy tan taking on a sickly pallid; sunken purplish dents resided under his eyes and his pale skin stretched taut and thin across his face, making his cheekbones jut out highly. He was lagging on schoolworks, and even Granger and Weasley can’t do anything about Harry’s state of sudden withdrawal even if, Draco had seen, how much they wanted to encourage Harry out of it.

Draco watched Harry’s face some more. He had removed his glasses earlier when Harry was starting to fall asleep, to avoid the painful indents of the frame on his skin. His lips were slightly parted, the tiniest bit of tongue poking out, drool starting to glisten at the side of his mouth. Draco chuckled, a sudden urge to plant a kiss on Harry’s forehead, just like what his mother used to do, overcame him. Though he reckoned it would be inappropriate, but that doesn’t mean he can’t brush his fingers softly through Harry’s messy hair and swept the overgrown bangs out of his eyes. Draco’s eyes travelled down to the faint dark spots dotting across Harry’s cheekbones and tip of his nose that Draco obsessively traced with his eyes earlier. They were barely seen, not like the freckles on Weasley’s face, but they were there, evidence of Harry’s hours under the sun.

_Cute_.

Draco quietly sighed, swept an overall look at Harry’s peaceful sleeping state, before slowly got up and padded across the floor. He looked back at Harry once again before closing the door behind him. He made a small trip to the loo to relieved himself and decided to visit his own dormitory before going back to Harry’s.

“Are you just going to snog all day?” Draco flatly said after a fake cough gone unnoticed. The moans cut short and the people on his bed stopped... whatever indecorous stuffs they had the audacity to perform. On his bed. Finally. Pansy and the Weaslette stared at him, flustered, messy-haired and blushing, save for the unapologetic lazy grins on their lips. Draco curled his lips in disdain. “Shameless, having to do it on top of my silky sheets. Don’t you own a bed to shag each other on?”

“Don’t be so selfish, Draco,” Pansy snickered, helping Ginevra up. She pulled the discarded jumper off the end of the bed and covered her indecency before turning to him fully. “We’re utilizing our available resources.”

“What the bloody fuck does that even mean?” Draco grumbled, fending them off his bed and fixing it, making sure no remainders of their indecorous assignations left, casting discreet cleaning charms to be sure, before sneering at his best friend. “I have you know my bed is not available for your profane engagements, Pansy. Kindly stay away from my personal properties, most specially where I sleep.”

“You sure are cranky for someone who’s high on the Sedatus, Draco,” Pansy snickered, not least bit apologetic of the fact Draco had walked in on them, Ginevra’s finger under her skirt, doing... whatever stuff he would not deign to imagine. “I remember you not being this excessively tetchy and unbearable when you once walked in on me riding Finch-Fletchley.”

“Wait, you shagged Justin before?” Ginevra gaped at her girlfriend, disbelief on her face. Draco would’ve shared Weaslette’s sentiment at the memory if it weren’t for the fact they had just done the dirty on his bed. “I expected better from you, honey—”

“You’re not the one to talk, honey,” Pansy snarled at the sickening epithet. “Do I have to remind you your awful decision of dating Michael Corner? So, your opinions are nullified. Besides, I’ve dated Draco Malfoy,” the aforementioned groaned when Pansy salaciously winked at him, “before, and that’s enough to compensate my questionable dating history.”

“Well, I’ve dated Harry Potter, bitch,” Ginevra shot back, earning a sardonic laugh from Pansy.

“Have you ever so much as breathe near his cock? No? Because he’s gay, babe,” she chuckled as Ginevra lunged at her. Draco’s left eye twitched.

“Are you both done?” He gritted. Pansy turned to him, eyes narrowing. She must’ve seen something in Draco’s face as she pulled Ginevra to her, whispering something then letting go. They shared an affectionate kiss on the lips and hands on each other’s bums before Ginevra made an exit.

Draco sat heavily on his bed, exhaling deeply. Pansy stood in front of him, hands on her hips in an imploring manner. He avoided her eyes, though it was a futile attempt. Draco is a master of concealment and subtlety, just like any other Malfoys before him, but there’s nothing he could hide from Pansy. This girl can detect even the tiniest bit of bull shit. No matter how much he loved her long-range intuition and foretelling finesse, it’s annoying some times. He heard her sigh and sat beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight.

“So, where’s Potter?” She asked lightly, trying and failing to sound casual. Apparently, she has a tact of a mountain troll. “You wouldn’t want to leave him alone. Merlin knows what things he might blow up unattended.”

“Stop sounding like he’s... a wild animal or something.”

“Might’ve fooled me.”

“No, he’s not...” Draco shook his head. “He’s. Just sleeping.”

“Sleeping?” Pansy asked incredulously. “No student had ever slept while under the Augmentare. You didn’t, perhaps, knock him out, did you?”

“Don’t be such a dolt, Pansy,” Draco grumbled, fingers fiddling the hem of his sweater, scrabbling through the higgledy-piggledy of his thoughts. “It’s emotionally toilsome. Being the mediator, I mean.”

In his periphery, Pansy peered at him with shrewd eyes. It was one of the reasons why Pansy is better at social navigating than him. Draco might be a master at concealing his emotions more than she ever was, but Pansy makes up for it with her ability to people-read that makes it easier for her to sway or manipulate someone to her bidding.

“There was a theory that Granger proposes,” Pansy said after a moment. Draco cut her off before she can continue.

“No more of Granger’s humanitarian tangents, Pans. I cannot bear to hear anymore of her Gryffindorian benevolence.”

“As I said, a theory. About the Histrionicus Potion,” Pansy went on sternly, glaring defiantly. “Blaise and Granger are correct in some ways. While there are certainly issues of non-consent, it is not entirely enslavement, per se. Well, not to certain mutualistic standings, anyway.”

“Where did you even get that theory?” Draco asked, skeptical. More than a little bothered at the implication.

“We went through your reports—”

“What?! Who told you to—”

“—and we’ve come to realised that both you and Potter, Millie and Patil, and Theo and Longbottom have corresponding results,” she said, Draco cringed at her clinical tone. “You absorbed Potter’s emotions, as you did right now, only because you and Potter share... mutual sentiments. It’s the reason why you feel tired every time you ‘mediate’.”

_Certain mutualistic standings. Mutual sentiments_. Draco’s mind whirled on the information. He didn’t come here to sit through Pansy’s farfetched and outlandish theories (and at Granger’s influence... he should’ve known not to let these two scatty women team up). He wanted some alone time, away from Harry and his unusual vulnerability that tugged at his heartstrings. He felt the enfeebling lethargy that swept over him after Harry’s breakdown, as if he were feeling the other’s emotions. And he hated the fact that his brain has a moment of sudden realization, as if all the pieces from last week clanked together.

“You have no way of proving it were true,” Draco stiffly said. “A theory. Of Granger’s nonetheless. Have you heard about her preposterous campaign about freeing house elves? That should’ve given you some warning bells.”

Pansy remained quiet, decidedly giving him the silence to ponder over the information. And Draco hated her for that. After a few hellish minutes, she spoke in a careful tone, “of course. There is no way of knowing. It’s a theory after all.”

“He hadn’t slept for... months,” Draco said abruptly, finding it hard to put up pretenses at Pansy’s tone.

“As you are. You still haven’t, since before the war,” Pansy said cynically, like a ruthless Professional mind-healer inanely pointing out the obvious. Draco’s lips tightened. More so at her next words: “Potter always brought out the best and worse of you, Draco.”

“I just... want him to sleep,” he murmured, angry at himself but too tired to lash out.

“Of course you do.” Draco hated Pansy’s condescending voice. “You’re always a little too peculiar when it comes to Potter.”

She stood up and left his room.

* * *

Draco had an outburst of internal panic upon the sight of Harry’s bed, unoccupied.

“Harry?” Draco called in the empty room. He pushed open the door to the en suite and found it empty. “Where the fuck are you!” Draco exclaimed as he paced by Harry’s bed, watching the unclosed lid of his trunk and the clutter of knickknacks surrounding it.

With a bolt of speed, Draco bounded down the stairs to the group of Gryffindors lounging by the fire in the Common Room.

“Have you seen where Harry went?” Draco asked, tone embarrassingly high-pitched.

“What do you mean where Harry went? Where is he?” Granger asked, standing up.

“That was what I was asking, Granger. I don’t know where he is,” Draco replied waspishly. “I thought you must’ve seen him walked by as there was no other way he could’ve gone out of the Common Room. Unless if he could fly, which is highly unlikely even if he is the bloody Savior.”

“Hey! Stop talking to my girlfriend like that,” Weasley stood up to. “He must’ve went to the loo. He couldn’t just went by unnoticed, could he?”

“Oh, that is so convenient, Weasley. I am so stupid not to checked it first before senselessly shitting my pants worrying about him. Thanks for the very useful advise!”

“What are you even so worried for? He’s not a child that you need to look after, Malfoy. Maybe you’re being such a bloody git that he wants to be away from you!”

“Are you hearing yourself?” Draco incredulously asked, pinching the spot between his eyes. “You have seen the way he broke down earlier, you dunderhead! He’s practically out of it. At this rate he most likely flung himself off the Astronomy tower or- or something—!”

“Stop it! Don’t you dare think like that,” Granger exclaimed, face horrified and close to sobbing. Even Weasley paled sickeningly at the thought. “Can you not panic, Malfoy! He must’ve used the Invisibility Cloak to get out.”

At that, Granger ran up to the boys’ dormitory. Without having any time to think about Harry owning such a valuable piece of possession, Draco and Weasley followed after Granger. She was rummaging through the cluttered mess of Potter’s belongings on the ground before picking a blanked parchment.

“What is that for, Granger?” Draco snapped, glaring at the bushy-haired witch. “I don’t have anytime for this sodding—”

“Do you want to find Harry or what?” Granger asked just as crossly. The Weasel interrupted.

“Wait, ‘Mione. You don’t supposed to show this git,” he glared warily at Draco, who was grasping for the tiniest bit of patience left of him, “Harry’s precious... map, do you?”

“Oh shut it, Ronald. It’s the only way we could find Harry.” Granger hovered her wand atop the empty parchment and muttered something silently. Suddenly, words and lines materialized on the surface. Draco didn’t give anytime to let the fact that it was a map of Hogwarts to sink in before he roamed his eyes on the parchment, hoping he could find Harry—

Sitting by the lake. Draco wasted no time and ran to the door. Before he could make it out though, Granger called behind him.

“It’s Halloween, Malfoy,” she said, eyes glinting with morose. “His parents... they died—”

“I know, Granger.”

“Please let him...” she trailed off, pursing her lips before resolutely nodded her head. Draco didn’t waste anytime bolting out of the room.

* * *

The sun had already set when Draco walked the same path toward the great lake. He saw Harry sitting at the same place they picnicked, his back against the large trunk of the tree. He was hunched, knees bent close to his chest, and his wand emitted a dull light, face pulled close to The Memoirs of Saturnine the Villain: Book 6. At the sound of Draco’s careful footsteps, Harry raised his head. His pallid face was glowing eerily with the lumos, casting shadows on his face.

“What are you thinking, Harry,” Draco said sternly. “Why have you gone off—”

“Did you know Warden’s parents were killed during the first War of the Worlds?” Harry quietly said. Draco stared at Harry, gauging his expression, before sitting down in front of him.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You read it?” Harry asked in wonder. Draco lightly smirked.

“Yeah. A bit overrated for my liking,” Harry mildly rolled his eyes at that, “it was what everyone was talking about. Pansy and Millie were obsessed. So I just have to check if it’s worth the hype.”

“Do you believe in alternate reality?” Harry whispered, eyes distant, glinting in the dimly lit wand.

Draco raised his brows, “heard of it. It doesn’t have any proof, so I don’t have any reasons to believe.” He shrugged. Harry looked at him solemnly.

“Truth or not, I sometimes wish there was another me, or many versions of Harry’s, existing somewhere else,” his voice turned wistful. “Warden... I felt like he could be me, in an alternate universe. But then again he lost nearly everyone in his life. And it’s not an alternate reality if it... mirrored my very own.”

Draco recalled the confrontation Harry and Dumbledore had during their first time with the Potions project. The cupboard. With no food and water. For days. Harry had went through various degrees of abuse through out his whole life. He was not only physically abused by his own blood, even his emotional needs and basic necessities were neglected. And then Hogwarts came, where he was subjected to mental and physical torture, manipulation, and grief. He has no family. And Draco had used to make fun of that fact.

Harry’s eyes glistened, shoulders stiff in an obvious attempt at preventing it from shaking. Draco wanted to comfort him, to touch him. When he raised his hand, Draco saw that it was trembling so he thought to put it back down. But Harry watched his hand, green eyes brimmed with unshed tears and longing. So Draco gently cradled Harry’s face in his palm, and Harry sighed.

“He was so different from me. He was brave but not stupid enough to lead his family to their demise. He had a strong personality and conviction, so strong that he had converted some of the fallen creatures who were loyal to Saturnine to the Light. He was the kindest friend anyone could’ve wanted; the epitome of hero with so much love for humanity, as Hermione so called him. He was everything that I was not.”

Draco internally bristled at the self-deprecating words. He wanted to tell Harry that he was the bravest person he had ever met. Harry was tenacious and unwavering. He was stubborn and uncompromising to his values, and even if that included some of biases and prejudice against Draco and the Slytherin House, Harry stuck to his ideals no matter the kind of things he was forced to face. Not to mention, he was the kindest person Draco had met. That was proven during the Fiendfyre and the trials. Harry didn’t have to do that to the person who constantly torment him for years. But he did, wholeheartedly.

Harry must’ve read what Draco was thinking because he didn’t give Draco time to voice it out.

“But, at the same time, we were the same. And when I remember him, I can’t help but feel it’s okay to feel this way. Because I’ve always thought... it’s not okay.” Harry both looked and sounded vulnerable and Draco’s heart ached. “Sirius and everyone else deserved to be mourned. Is it selfish of me to not shed even just a tear... because I can’t. I just felt so numb and helpless. I know... I should’ve tried harder but... I can’t. No matter how hard I try. I’m not weak.” He whispered the last word frailly, as if the weight of the word on his tongue had made him feel like he was. Weak.

Draco understood the concept completely. It was simple, human psychology. Draco might not be so good at reading other people’s emotions like Pansy was, be a little too self-absorbed most of the time, but he can figure out the effects of complex trauma to a person’s mind and expect a person’s behavior who underwent emotional abuse as a child. And Draco knew what Potter’s trying to convey; it’s one of the few things Draco shared with him. A very fucked-up childhood.

“You’re not selfish, Harry,” Draco said softly, but firmly. Harry stared up at him, the intense viridian eyes that only looked at him with incense and disgust before were now filled with an extraordinary display of grief and open yearning. “I understand what you feel. It’s not your fault that circumstances and people taught you that emotions are a sign of weakness. You’ve had it worst, Harry. Please stop beating yourself up.”

Harry sniffed. In the eerie glow of the wand, Draco could see Harry pink-cheeked from the late Autumn wind and the tears that dried on his skin. Draco wiped them, the thought of Harry’s complexities came to mind. Trying not to think about the questionable bits of his conversation with Pansy earlier, he couldn’t help but to empathise with Harry, now that he knew he can absorb the other’s emotions under the Sedatus. It was immensely horrible to not be able to express grief at a death of a loved one, just getting through one’s life with its burden sitting heavy in the recesses of one’s mind, without any outlet to heave it out. Draco supposed it was brutal, like a harrowing penance on top of every bad thing in Harry’s life. Draco was gripped with an overwhelming urge to protect Harry, but beneath that was also a clawing guilt after years of feeling so childishly envious and antagonistic because of Harry’s fame and glory, not taking into account that Harry was suffering for years.

“Thank you,” Harry quietly said after a few minutes of silence. “I must’ve looked so pathetic bawling and whimpering. Sorry for that.”

“It’s not a problem, and you’re not pathetic,” Draco said, reassuringly. “I understand the feeling of being afraid to show emotions. But it’s completely normal. Well, as normal as the Boy-Who-Lived can be. We were ought to express it, lest we feel like a walking, breathing husk.” He felt like he was baring his soul to Harry as much as Harry was wearing his heart on his sleeve. “You are not pathetic, and certainly not weak for having them. We were just born from circumstances that forced us to pretend we haven’t.”

Draco wouldn’t thought of being this vulnerable, pouring his heart out easily to anyone, much less to Harry Potter. But that’s what’s beautiful about the amalgamation of Sedatus and Augmentare. No matter how much he loathed Severus and refused to speak to him at the moment, he couldn’t help but appreciate the exquisite beauty of the Histrionicus Potion. If it weren’t for the ingenuously sadistic mind of his godfather, Harry wouldn’t have had recovered from his fear of expressing his emotions. And Draco wouldn’t have had the chance to be gripped with the hauntingly beautiful weight of all the emotions brimming in his chest that he pretended he doesn’t have his whole life.

Because that was what he learned through this whole quagmire. This project offered a safe space for both Harry and Draco, who had almost a decade of virulent history and malevolent feelings, to help each other without letting all the mess in the past get in between.

“This is tiring,” Harry sighed, the tight lines around his lips and the clench of his jaws speak for themselves. He pulled his knees to his chest. Draco pulled his hand from Harry’s face. “I wish I could sleep. Though that would be asking too much.”

“I can help you with that,” Draco said impulsively. He tensed, wondering if the poignant air had gotten into and messed with his head. Harry stared at him flatly. Draco cleared his throat. “I’ll help you sleep.”

“You would?” Harry softly asked. It wasn’t disbelieving nor rejection, so Draco nodded. They stared at each other’s eyes for longer than necessary, until Harry looked down.

“This was... weird,” Harry said quietly, his voice hoarse from crying. “I came back to Hogwarts because I want normalcy. But you,” he said, the edge of his lips quirking slightly. “Draco Malfoy had turn everything upside-down.”

“You’re hardly normal to begin with, aren’t you? Scarhead?” Draco said, voice light with humor. He was immensely pleased at the tentative grin that broke the morose lines on Harry’s face.

“Gotta admit, we both weren’t.”

There was a moment of comfortable silence, where Harry just stared off at the indigo that colored the sky at the wake of the twilight, the blinking stars blanketing its expanse, and Draco warred with himself, if the object in his pocket is worth showing or it would probably destroy the tenuous, temporary peace.

Fuck it.

“You know what’s even more weird?” Draco asked. Harry looked back at him. Draco pulled out the object in his pocket—an ancient stopwatch, a family heirloom—that McGonagall had granted him permission earlier after almost half an hour of agitated pleading. Harry stared more, now confused.

“We’re visiting your parents,” Draco whispered. “We’re going to Godric’s Hollow.”

He had been afraid he was going overboard with this little impulsive decision, him and Harry were not friends after all. He was prepared to shrug it off after Harry stayed staring at him, until Harry placed a hand above Draco’s and the stopwatch.

The nauseating force pulled at their navel.

* * *

Harry hadn’t seen the day would come that he would cry his guts out before his once arch rival.

But the thing is, odd things had always happened where Harry is involved. When he found himself at the rooftop after being chased by Dudley and his gang; when he was suddenly at a tree after being hounded by Aunt Marge’s dog without remembering having to climb up the trunk; when he luckily got away from Voldemort and his Death Eaters at the graveyard. And in the grand scheme of things, courageously betraying one of his weaknesses to Draco Malfoy (of all people!) weighed no more than all the life-and-deaths and you’re-a-wizard-Harry’s and freakish connections with a dark lord.

It’s not to say it doesn’t surprise Harry, and a little bit unsettled at the easiness of which he shared a part of himself that he hadn’t shared with Hermione and Ron ever before. He couldn’t lie, Hermione and Ron are his best friends, but not even his closeness to them could make him divulge all the harrowing details of his childhood, let alone this “condition”. But thanks very much to Snape’s very creative inventions that Draco Malfoy had now had a glimpse into the person he used to hate every piece of his being with.

But Harry couldn’t just deny the fact that, no matter how much he hated the idea of, it was purgative. It was better than reading the latest installment of The Memoirs of Saturnine the Villain and re-reading it all over again in cold detachment for him to avoid any sentimentalities. Harry didn’t know he needed it until he felt the inducing, healing hands reaching out to his soul; Draco’s somber gaze, open and expressive eyes, and coaxing words shrouding all the uncertainties and fears he accumulated throughout his troubled life, irradiating contentment and ease through him that he hadn’t quite known before. Somehow, it felt like the Imperius, though it wasn’t sharp and invasive; it rather felt like an embrace of warmth and gentleness.

If felt... right, telling Draco one of the many reasons why he was fucked up. Inviting; like a the breathe of fresh air after hours of inhaling the cupboard’s damp smell or relieving a kink from a day’s worth of tension.

Harry had not cried this many tears before. Not when Cedric died before him, not when Sirius fell into the veil. He thought he couldn’t cry any longer, but to his embarrassment, he couldn’t stop the grief that settled heavily into his chest at the sight of his parents names inscribed on their gravestone. Draco had stood a few feet behind him to give him some privacy but near enough to hear the dry sob that wreaked out of him. It had echoed across the silent graveyard anyway.

He had not said anything to his parents, just let the overdue sorrow of his late parents gripped him and his sad exhales to carry over the Autumn air. He hadn’t mind everything else in the world.

But now that he was laying in bed, Draco sat upright beside him, Harry certainly started to mind. He clawed his fingers against his Gryffindor sheets, looking up at Draco’s empty eyes. It was exactly five minutes since the potions wore off, and probably a minute or two since they finished today’s documentation. The Gryffindor dorm around them was dark and silent, and they were shut behind the sealed and charmed bed hangings.

Draco’s face was too hard to decipher in the muted moonlight that managed to pass through his flimsy bed hangings. But Harry was sure, now that the Sedatus had left his system, Draco effortlessly slipped back to his emotionless doll façade, just like he always did. Harry could only vaguely see Draco’s quicksilver eyes, they were unusually bright and they were staring down at him.

Harry stared back up. He didn’t dare move, trying so hard to put the earlier things out of his mind. But a wince had contorted his face no matter the effort of relaxing his muscles. Draco shot him a final look before shifting off the bed. In a moment of impulsivity, Harry reached out and curled his fingers around Draco’s lithe wrist. Draco stilled and stared back down at Harry.

“I thought the offer was still up?” Harry said, breathlessly. He cleared his throat. “I mean, if you wanted to, of course. I’m just asking, if you, you know. Just—”

“Scoot over.”

“What?” Harry asked, voice embarrassingly high.

“I said scoot over, Harry,” Draco repeated, his voice a soft lilt in the ringing silence of the dorm room. Harry’s throat worked up, staring at Draco before he shifted to give Draco space.

Draco tucked himself under Harry’s Gryffindor red blanket. There was an inch or three between them. Harry’s chest constricted, his arm that was close to Draco tingled and flushed. He closed his eyes tightly. This isn’t working. What was he even thinking? He knew in himself that he was fucked up, that he craved physical contact, one of the many things that were deprived of him as a child. It was another thing to crave physical contact from Draco Malfoy. Stupid, this isn’t working.

“You need to relax,” Draco said, quietly that Harry thought he was humming. Harry turned his head to look at him and saw Draco’s profile, his eyes closed.

“How am I supposed to bloody relaxed?” Harry asked, high-pitched with panic. Draco shifted so his whole body was facing toward Harry. He opened his eyes, half-lidded, and Harry felt his gaze hot on his face. He mimicked Draco’s position.

Draco pulled his hand to Harry’s face, just as gently, and cupped it against Harry’s eyes. The touch was too soft, too delicate, and Harry breathed slowly, relishing the soothing feel of his elegant palm.

“Close your eyes.”

Harry did, his lashes grazing against the surface of Draco’s palm. It was gone too soon, and Harry was about to open his eyes, when a finger caressed the line on his nose. The finger gracefully danced across his face, down the planes of his jaw, brushed his hair lightly before returning to his brows and closed lids and the curve of his lips. Harry’s muscles gradually eased, and soon after, his breath stabled and his body went limp. He was slowly falling into the painfully blissful void of unconsciousness and the fear suddenly gripped him.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Draco soothed, fingers still gently flirting across his cheek, when Harry’s body jerked. “Don’t be afraid, I’m here. Just go to sleep, Harry.”

As if Draco’s voice were a hypnotic lull, Harry succumbed into the inviting warmth of sleep.

For the first time in a very long time, he slept peacefully.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought it would be nice to have a drarry moment without the influence of potions. aren't they cute??? :((
> 
> (stream dynamite by bts, if you like kpop hehe)

Harry drifted in and out of sleep.

The first time he awoke, the world was still dark, if the little moonlight that managed to seep through his gauzy bed hangings is any indication. His eyes were gritty and he was too sleep-addled to find his wand and cast a _tempus_. He guesstimated that it was still between 3 or 4 in the morning. He certainly wasn't in the mindset to question the arm that draped over his hip and the warmth of the body pressed behind him or the fact that he was sleeping for the first time without trembling after the vivid nightmares. Harry felt so relaxed and calm, sleep beckoned him back into unconsciousness that he didn't wonder at the sheer strangeness of it all.

The second time, he jolted himself awake. The first rays of the sunrise emerged from the horizon, dousing the whole room with muted light. Harry felt the disorientation from sleep clouding his mind, the dregs of the night's worth of uninterrupted rest clung to his consciousness. He barely registered another person's body next to him, their gangly and sharp limbs sprawled atop his body, tufts of blonde hair tickling his chin. His eyes drooped, succumbing back to sleep, until it dawned on him.

He had just slept. He _finally_ slept.

His body jerked to awareness once more. He suddenly felt wrong-footed, used to weeks of sleeplessness and nightmares that a night went smoothly had left him slightly feeling discomfited. It was not unlike the strange feeling during the mornings just after the war brought on by the hunt for horcruxes; the vestiges of adrenaline, constant vigilance and the thought of guard duty for the night stirred him up only to remember he was safely tucked in his bed in Grimmauld Place.

The events from last night cleared his sleep-addled mind and he realised there was a warm weight pressed on top of him. _Draco. His fingers on my face. I slept. I truly slept. No nightmares._ The thoughts filled his mind as he stared unseeingly at Draco's blond head atop his chest, disbelieving, until half-lidded and drowsy quicksilver eyes sluggishly stared up at him.

"You're awake," Draco mumbled hoarsely. Harry only managed a nod before Draco grunted and fell back on his chest. He heard light snores coming from the blond.

Harry, still whirled from the strange morning, couldn't help the pull of sleep. Confused but still utterly tired, he fell back to sleep, unknowingly holding Draco to him closer for warmth.

The next time he awoke, it was to the hubbub of conversation and bodies shuffling outside of his closed bed hangings. There was a dip in the mattress on the other side of his bed, a warmth of a body who had occupied it, and the vague smell of citrus, emanated from the empty spot. Yet Harry felt cold, disappointed.

He knew sleep would lodged heavily in his joints and bones, but when he stretched, his body was more awake than ever. There wasn't the pounding headache that seemed to have temporary residence in his temple and the pinpricks of ache behind his eyelids. The sleep had been rejuvenating, so different from the lethargy that he'd always known ever since the hunt for horcrux. It was not a feeling he's familiar but just as welcoming. And to think it was because of Draco...

Harry stretched his hand across the space beside him, aware of the dismay heavy in his throat that he can't quite comprehend. Of course Draco was not stupid enough to get caught by his roommates, he was after all in a den full of Gryffindors. Maybe he was afraid to be seen with Harry on a bed? Maybe he was forced to help Harry sleep because he had seen him vulnerable last night? The last question triggered the memories of yesterday and Harry pulled himself up, refusing to wallow in embarrassment and shame that would inevitably follow after what happened.

A glint of gold caught his periphery, and he turned to see an ancient stopwatch sitting innocuously on top of the pillow Draco had lain last night. It was the portkey they used to Godric's, and Draco told him it was a Malfoy heirloom. Harry wondered if Draco left it there in his haste to get out of the Gryffindor boys dorm. But the object was decidedly laid in the pillow, there was no way Draco didn't see it, as if he had left it there on purpose. But why?

Harry picked it up, examining the object. It was shiny and cold against his palm and the steady and mild thrum of magic undulated from its cool surface. Harry had a horrifying thought that it might be a dark object, it was a Malfoy heirloom after all, but he remembered what Hermione told them about things charged with dark magic; _unless you're a dark wizard/witch, touching them would be nauseating_. The stopwatch certainly doesn't feel that way in his grasp, the vibrations rather felt like a calming buzz. Harry flipped the stopwatch, the golden surface glinting in the sunlight, a lone sunbeam momentarily blinding him. He pulled the object close to his eyes, grazing his fingers on the inscribed initials, _IWP_ _to LSA_ , below it were the dates, _9.14.1878 - 12.23.1880_. A miniature heart was engraved just beside the digits.

Harry curled his fingers around the heirloom, a silly sensation overlapping the cold disappointment for no apparent reason.

After he got dressed, Harry put the stopwatch inside his pockets.

* * *

When he sat in his usual place at the Gryffindor table, Ron and Hermione were already half way through their breakfast, though they paused in their chewing and stared at Harry in consternation. Startlingly, Harry beamed at them.

"Good morning," he greeted, piling food in his plate. Ron and Hermione gaped at him. As far as his friends were concerned, Harry was never this cheerful early in the morning, if their bamboozled expressions were anything to go by. Harry didn't mind, for the first time, the knowing look they shared and dug in his breakfast.

"Good morning mate," Ron said slowly. He stared at Harry. "You seem to be in a very good mood."

Harry nodded then swallowed. He looked at the expressions on his friends' faces. "What? Am I not allowed to be in a good mood? Do you rather prefer me brooding?" He added jokingly but it only made his best friends even more confused.

"Um. Of course not, but Hallo—" Ron grunted when Hermione elbowed him in the ribs. "Er. How's last ni—"

"Of course you're allowed to be in a good mood, Harry," Hermione said. Harry pretended he didn't saw her stepping on Ron's foot under the table. "It's a welcoming change. It's just that..." at that, she shared another look with Ron, now tinge with nervousness. Harry suppressed a sigh, vaguely knowing where this was going. Hermione waved her wand, encasing them in a bubble of Muffling charm. "We were worried for you, Harry. I know you always feel downcast during Halloween, and that you want to be alone with yourself and your thoughts. And that is okay, that is completely understandable. We can always respectfully give you some space. But you can't just always distract yourself away from your pain and emotional negativity. It isn't healthy, Harry. It's been going on for months. And don't expect us to not notice all those months after the war wasting away in Muggle bars, sleeping with anyone so callously! I mean, there isn't anything wrong with shagging anyone you like. But this coping mechanism isn't good for you at all, and certainly not in the long run. I knew it's getting lonely, but you don't have to be alone because you have us. We just wanted to help, Harry. We're your best friends; your _family_. Let us help you."

Harry stared at Hermione, startled with her outburst. She was teary-eyed and panting after her long rant and Ron's arm curled around her shoulder, comforting her, and his face was somber. If Hermione was close to tearing up instead of looking stern and Ron was in serious mode, this was a subject that they had hash over for so long, just waiting for the right time to boil over and tip. Harry knew he had some issues with himself that he seriously need some pondering over and was deliberately refusing to acknowledge but it was not an excuse to let his best friends worry for his sake. He became so self-absorbed that the one thing that he prevented from happening inevitably did, all because he doesn't want to intrude into their lives as couples and worry them. But Hermione and Ron have always been there for him right from the start, not just during the heroic adventures but also in personal growths and developments, and depriving them of the right to let them know about his problems is not fair for them. Shame, embarrassment and guilt all gripped Harry.

"I'm really sorry if I worry both of you," Harry said contritely. "I really didn't mean it. I'm just... we all just came out of war and we still have individual scars we need to heal. I don't want to be... you know..." He sighed helplessly.

"Come on, mate," Ron rolled his eyes, but there is gentleness in his smile. "Even if I'm still grieving for Fred, I wouldn't be selfish enough not hear you out on and help you with what you're feeling. We're all in this, Harry. We've always been, since 1991."

They all grinned at that, cutting through the serious air around them. Hermione looked at Ron with a proud smile, eyes still glistening with tears.

"I'm really sorry," Harry earnestly said once again. "It's my Muggle relatives. You know how... nasty my childhood was." Nasty doesn't even begin to cover everything, but he looked at Hermione beseechingly to make her understand. He still couldn't make himself talk about it after all this time.

Hermione seemed to comprehend because she nodded, a sympathetic look in her eyes. "I totally understand how awful your relatives treated you. And I wish you've gotten rid of the things they've caused you. But your problems matter too, Harry, no matter how much you think you're causing a burden."

Harry wondered why they had this talk in the Great Hall, of all places. It was so heavy a subject and being surrounded with people with only a thin veil of a Muffling charm to separate them kind of make the whole point dull, like some sort of parody. If they were in a more appropriate, sacredly quiet room, the heaviness of the conversation would be more conciliating to the point of the problem. Though Harry also doesn't know if he could ever have any strength to postpone this some other time or courage to initiate this _kind_ of talk if given the choice. He just have to settle with what he can get.

"I couldn't quite imagine having this heart to heart talk in the middle of breakfast," Harry said, his best friends grinned with him. Hermione ended the charm, signaling the end of the conversation. Though he's got a feeling that it was only the end of the heavy bit. "I can't believe myself by saying this, but it needs to be said. I believed that Snape's Histrionicus potion has somehow done more good than we care to admit."

"Mate, are you off your rocker?" Ron gaped at him incredulously. "How can you say it's a good idea? We're practically bound to the Slytherins—!"

Hermione mildly poked Ron on his side. "Don't be dramatic, Ron." She turned to Harry. "What happened yesterday, Harry? You ran away unannounced. We were worried."

"Malfoy's shit his pants," Ron snickered. Hermione gave him the evil eye.

"Draco found me by the lake," Harry told them, trying hard not to get swamped with the embarrassing moments of his vulnerability. It was quite hard. "It's because of the Histrionicus potion that it was easier for me to confess, like getting pissed on Firewhiskey, except that I was still aware and sober."

"It didn't force you to do... things?" Hermione inquired, looking at him in thinly-veiled skepticism. Harry almost laugh at the memory of her and Zabini arguing about the potion the other day.

"No. It was natural. Cathartic, even."

Ron's face was pinched, looking like he wanted to protest at the incredulity of Harry's now familiarity with Draco but was trying to act nonchalance. Hermione's lips were pursed, though not in a way that is disapproval nor threatening. Her eyes were sparkling with something he refused to admit. Harry was afraid his friends would be angry and offended that it was Draco Malfoy whom he confided his issues with, not them. They were apparently so worried for him and there he was, consorting with and finding comfort in the person that they considered enemy for years.

"And he brought me to Godric's Hollow. To visit my parents," he said slowly, waiting for the stern frowns and gaping mouths. Hermione and Ron looked at each other before she looked at Harry with a warm smile. Even Ron stared at him with intrigue, a small keen smirk tugging his lips. Harry stared at them in confusion.

"That's good, Harry," Hermione said, pleased.

"What..."

"I mean, I still don't trust the git," Ron said. Hermione turned to him in warning. "What? You can't just take away the years of hating him, Hermione. He might've turned a new leaf, okay I'm all for that, but his presence still put me on edge. It's not so easy getting over those years. I'm not as forgiving as Harry here."

"Well, at least you admit the last part," Hermione shook her head, smiling fondly at Ron.

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked. "You're not upset that I brought him there, instead of you two?"

"Don't be silly, Harry," Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course we're not. I mean, it's Malfoy," at that Ron grinned at her, "and I'm still a bit skeptical when it comes to him. But if Malfoy can bring you there, can comfort you, why would we be against it?"

"Because it's... Malfoy?" Harry said, still not getting their point. "And we're under the influence of the potions. It doesn't mean anything."

"Why is he staring at you then?"

At that, Harry suddenly turned his head to face the rest of the hall, so fast he thought he can hear the sickening crunch in his neck. He sought the Slytherin table and immediately found Draco's eyes. Harry was briefly pleased to see Draco's odd doll façade slipped, looking shocked to be caught staring and hastily looked away.

Harry gripped the stopwatch in his pocket, barely concealing the smile that threatened to break his pursed lips, trying so damn hard ignoring Ron and Hermione's knowing expressions.

* * *

The day went by so fast. It was probably because all his classes for the day were shared with Draco.

Everywhere he went, he could see the back of Draco's blond hair, glowing in the sunlight that streamed through the window in which he sat by, looking up to listen to Professor Flitwick demonstrating the quite complex wand work of one of the variations of Atmospheric Charms and alternately ducking down to jot some notes down. Or Harry could see him dueling with Zabini during DADA, his wand stretched out in front of him in its defensive posture, his position regal and stiff yet he moved with swiftness and grace that only Draco could pull off as Zabini cast an array of offensive spells at him. Or Harry could see him sitting across the Great Hall in lunch, talking to his Slytherin friends, his face impassive even as his friends were laughing all around him.

Harry supposed he should've listened to his Professors and not depend on Hermione's notes later tonight. After all, he still had no idea what to do with his life after Hogwarts now that he decided he's too tired to fight and duel to become an Auror. It would be helpful if he get Outstandings his NEWTs, or at least Exceeds Expectations so that he can ensure he'll be qualified for whatever job that he see fit once he gets his shit together. Ever since the start of the term, Harry barely scraped through the lessons, by the aid of Hermione of course, and it's just a matter of time before her patience run dry and he'd be at the end of her stern reproach. Harry doesn't fancy seeing her facsimile of Molly and Headmistress McGonagall's expression.

But it didn't really do him good when all of his classes were shared with Draco Malfoy. No matter how hard he tried to focus, Harry always found his eyes wandering back to stare at the back of Draco's head or his profile. It was like there was something that pulled Harry to him, like a distant fantasy or an eerie beckoning voice from the end of a dark road that he was too powerless to fought back. Harry didn't know how much of his fascination showed through his face but he could see Ron's confused expression and Hermione's glare of frustrated resignation from his periphery. Harry doggedly ignored his friends.

By the end of Defense, Harry was reeling with adrenaline after he partnered with Ron. They were practicing with some advance defensive and offensive spells. When Ron had him slipping down on his butt after he had been distracted with the speck of blond-head moving in and out of his periphery for the better part of their dueling, Harry tried to put his mind on the task at hand (that is, wiping the knowing, conspiratorial grin on Ron's face that suggested he perfectly knew what Harry'd been thinking of) with a single-minded intent. He was enjoying it so much, the practical lessons in DADA, all the friendly competitiveness and thrill of duels, that Harry forgot what had occupied his mind for most of the day. Professor Bentham dismissed the eighth years, and Harry and his friends just rounded the corner on the way to the eighth year tower when he saw the blond excusing himself from his friends and going straight to the direction of the library. Harry didn't know why he did the same to his friends. Excuse himself that is.

"Library, Harry? That's so unusual of you," Ron snorted. Hermione, on the other hand, had an speculative look on her face, as if she can see through him and didn't take his shit. Before she could so much as open her mouth, Harry dashed off.

Harry panted when he crossed the threshold to the Library, his breathing apparently loud enough that Madam Pince glared at him. Harry strode along the aisle in between shelves of ancient tomes, casually browsing through some books, randomly picking a book that had seen better days. He stopped at the next section, body leaning against a shelf and eyes glued on the lone figure in the long table by the window, an open book in front of him and few others surrounding his area, idly scribbling on a piece of parchment.

Draco looks comfortable and dainty, yet still managed to look prim even when uncharacteristically slouched. Harry could see the tip of his tongue poking out and the minute frown on his brows; he wondered how Draco made such a bland position be fetching to look at.

"Are you just going to lurk there and watch me like a creep?"

Harry started. Even if he wasn't really being subtle with his staring, he made no effort in making his presence known and merely contented himself with watching Draco work. Without his knowing, Harry walked toward him and sat beside him. Draco didn't look up, still focused on his essay, but he also didn't tell him to bugger off so Harry relax in his chair. The small distance between them didn't deter him from staring some more, enticed with Draco's sharp jaw and long nose, the tiny details of his face now that he's closer.

"Your blatant staring is distracting, Potter," Draco suddenly said, though he still didn't look at Harry. "Can I assist you with something?"

"Didn't know you were some library assistant now, Did Madam Pince hired you?" Harry blurted out before he can't help himself. Draco abruptly stopped writing, pursing his lips before he resumed. Harry cleared his throat. "I mean, er. Obviously, I'm here to, uh, study. Of course. What else."

Harry suppressed a self-deprecating groan, vaguely wondering what had become of his life, why he suddenly lost his tongue in Draco's presence. They certainly had seven years of witty altercation and acerbic imbroglios but Harry's will to come up with a sarcastic retort all but diminished. Then again, the new Draco couldn't really get a rise out of him enough to warrant the same acrimonious exchange.

"Is there any problem, Potter? I can feel your eyes on me the whole day," Draco stopped writing and put his quill down, though he still had his eyes cast on the table. "At least if you'd like to spy on me again, do it more subtly. It was very unambiguous even to someone with a mind of a troll."

"Who says I'm trying to be subtle?" Harry bluntly said and then soundly closed his mouth when Draco's lips pursed even more. "And I'm not spying on you. It's just..."

"Just what?"

Harry was slightly chafed that Draco wouldn't look at him. He opened his mouth but then his attention moved to the window, where he could see the weather outside. It was early November, but the last dregs of autumn sun shone through the gloomy clouds. A brilliant idea occurred to Harry.

"It was too early to be cooped up in the library, isn't it? NEWTs are months away."

"It's not too early for someone who wanted to pass with Outstanding marks," Draco quipped, sounding almost too close as he did before. Harry started, hearing it for the first time for a very long time. "I supposed you wouldn't understand. You don't need to pass your NEWTs, do you? The Golden Boy that you are."

Instead of feeling insulted, excitement thrummed through Harry, feeling like fourteen again. "I don't know, Malfoy, but I think the weather's lovely today. Fancy a fly in the pitch?"

Draco looked at him sharply, grey eyes guarded and wary. Harry offered a lopsided grin.

"What? Scared?"

Draco scoffed, a ghost of smirk on his lips, "you wish."

* * *

Harry didn't know if Draco would took on his offer to fly. After all, they had not interacted amicably outside of their Potions project. But after mounting on his Firebolt and gliding through the air, there was no room for regret or embarrassment. Harry missed this!

The weather was perfect for a Seeker's game. Harry's hair was whipping about in the wind as he soared. His heart throbbed in his chest, the adrenaline at being high up in the air spiking enthusiasm that thrummed through him. He grinned, the air chilly and sharp on his lungs.

It was just the right choice that he invited Draco to fly, no matter how crazy an idea it initially was, because when he turned to Draco just few feet away from him, his breath hitched. The rays of the setting sun caught on Draco's hovering form, his windblown hair looks like a golden halo around him, his skin actually glows, the usual dull grey eyes now glinting in delight, and his smile—damn, his smile—was exuberant. It was the first time Harry saw that euphoric expression on Draco. destroying his doll façade. He was used to the haughty smirks and jeering sneers on Draco's face throughout the years of animosity, but the pure, unmalicious and open laughter was so strange and new that Harry suddenly felt like he was falling off his broom in a blistering speed.

Draco Malfoy, in his broom up in the air, shining under the sunset, is so fucking beautiful. He was always so beautiful, but with no potion in Harry's system, there was nothing that he could blame on why he found Draco such an... enchanting and captivating sight to behold. Harry gripped the handle of his broom tightly, his stomach lurching that he knew has nothing to do with flying.

"First who catches the snitch wins," Draco grins challengingly. With a wink, Draco streaked to the direction of the goalpost, where the distinct golden glint of the snitch hovered.

They made few attempts on catching the snitch. Draco had almost caught it thrice, but it was charmed to swerve out of the human's grasp once it senses at being caught. They could just fly around the pitch all night, but Harry didn't mind. He wouldn't tell Draco about the charmed snitch, because Harry simply enjoyed seeing Draco moving through the air beside him, a challenging glint in those quicksilver pools, his smirk jocular but losing its usual malice. And then just forgetting about the game all together, they raced around the pitch, gleeful whoops resonating throughout the chilly, open space. Harry and Draco laughed heartily as they dived and zoomed, side by side, together.

"Surprisingly, that was exhilaratingly fun," Draco gasped as they landed on the grass, stumbling slightly, still pumped up by the thrill of flying just for the sake of flying. No rivalry, no bludgers. "I would never thought it would be this enjoyable to fly with you, Potter. Of all people."

Harry grinned, heart thumping fast from the adrenaline. They stood in front of each other, broomstick in hand. "Glad I pulled you out from your boring study session then. That was very fun. Indeed."

Draco's grin softened into a delicate smile, upper teeth biting the side of his lips. "I thought I could never ride a broom again," he whispered, eyes casting downward, "you know, the fiendfyre and all."

Harry stared at Draco, mesmerized and fascinated. He couldn't believe Draco was deliberately opening up to him without the influence of the Histrionicus potion. Draco normally looked so guarded, but right now he was so amicable and good-natured. Seeing Draco willingly opening up to him meant a lot to Harry.

"Not to sound arrogant, but you were the only person whom I can consider a challenge to fly with," Harry said. Draco's eyebrows arched in surprise. "It would be a pity if you lose your enthusiasm. You're such a good flier."

"Wow," Draco huffed a laugh, his cheeks flushing. "Harry Potter complementing me! Never see this day would come."

Harry sheepishly grinned, willing his own blush to go away. He stared up at Draco's eyes, they were alight and _so fucking gorgeous_. He knew the endearment that is clearcut in his face couldn't just be willed away, so he let it be shown. He wanted Draco to see it. He didn't know why.

"You shouldn't hide behind all these masks, Draco," Harry whispered. He belatedly realised he was moving closer and they were inches away from each other. But he didn't move away, and neither did Draco. "I don't know if it's necessary for you to be this impassive and subdued, like a fucking porcelain doll. Probably a Slytherin thing. But just like this, so open... you look so good. You should laugh more often."

Draco's face fell and his eyes lost its spark, now guarded and cold. Harry inwardly cursed, thinking he had fucked it up.

"No. I'm sorry," he softly said, wanting to see the part that Draco doesn't usually display to the world. Tempted, he raised his hand to graze a knuckle ever so gently against Draco's face, reverently moving it on his cheek down to his jaw, just like how Draco did to him last night. Draco's breath hitched and he fluttered his eyes close. Harry's heart beat in his throat as he cupped Draco's face in his hand.

"Who are you to tell me what to do?" Draco asked, the words were harsh but his tone was soft. He didn't sound so angry at all.

"I'm just... just Harry. Your Gryffindor rival."

"The Chosen One. The Savior of the Wizarding World," he snorted gently. When he opened his eyes, they glinted. There was a jolt of heat in Harry's navel at the sight of Draco's earnest eyes, and if they weren't standing so close Harry might've staggered. "You're not so special."

"Yeah. I'm not," he laughed mildly, eyes moving down to look at Draco's lips. "Can I... kiss you?"

"You want to?" Draco narrowed his eyes, but his face flushed adorably.

"That's why I asked," Harry snickered. Draco rolled his eyes but his hand traveled to lay at the back of Harry's head, fingers gently tugging on his unruly hair.

It was all the confirmation that he needed. Harry pulled his face to Draco's, slanting his lips and placing it on the blonde's awaiting ones. Harry might've melted; Draco's lips felt so soft on his, and Harry's heart felt like it was soaring. They moved their lips slowly, delicately, and no amount of flying on brooms and Quidditch could ever compare to the feeling of Draco's lips on his.

It was a tender, tentative touch, yet Harry felt like floating so high up in the sky he thought he won't be able to come down.

It was Draco who moved away first. He looked intoxicated, eyes half-lidded and luscious lips slightly gaping in astonishment. A rush of heady pleasure buzzed through Harry's body and he dipped his head to capture those beautiful lips once more, but his lips met Draco's finger instead.

"You're so greedy," Draco giggled, he bloody giggled and Harry didn't know what to do with the sight. Harry made a frustrated sound and Draco laughed. He place a short kiss on Harry's lips before he stepped back. "Goodbye Potter. Don't think of me too much."

Harry cursed out loud, gaping at Draco's retreating back.

The reason why Harry couldn't sleep later that night is not because of the nightmares but because of soft lips and golden skin and playful eyes. Harry smiled throughout the night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He was becoming rapidly obsessed with Draco Malfoy” ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little bit of angst (this was shitty bec i used my phone to update again)

Harry squirmed in his seat. It was a good thing the armchair felt soft and comfy, not like the ones in Snape’s office that left his backside aching after the seemingly endless hours of detention.

Harry stared at the few trinkets ornamentally placed above the rough-hewn table: a golden obelisk sat at the right side corner that glittered when it caught the light; a picture of a moving seaside, the sun glittering on the gently rippling waves; a small pendulum, attached against a triangular-shaped metal, that swung in a perfect arch. The table was impersonal, as with the state of the whole room; bare, white, so clinical. It was a temporary office but they should’ve done a little bit of effort to make it more bearable.

He had once stared at the pendulum for fifteen minutes and almost dozed off. It might probably be a sleep-inducing hypnosis, or as what Hermione informed him, but he wouldn’t mind a little bit of nap if it meant holding off on the impending barrage of questions. He shifted his attention to the sole frame in the table, the soothing lapping of waves against the seashore, sand glistening in the sunlight. It momentarily relaxed him as he waited for his Mind-Healer to finish reading his journal.

It certainly helped a lot, the monthly Mind-Healing sessions. Mind-Healer Dianne was more than efficient at her job; she never once looked at and treated Harry as the Hero, she was professional but not cynical in her approach, there was no judgement and pity in her eyes as he recalled a brief and polished version of his childhood, she waited patiently for whatever Harry deigned to say and always knew what to ask.

But even if he tentatively started to open up to her, Harry still felt uncomfortable sitting through and reminiscing the awful memories. He had spent most of his life burying them under normalcy, after all. He bit his lower lip, tapping his fingers in a dizzying rhythm on the tabletop.

“How are you feeling, Harry?” Dianne asked him after a few moments of silence. Harry looked at her and shrugged.

“I’m fine, Dianne. Thank you,” he said politely. Dianne hummed.

“Have you thought of what your monthly recreational activity would be for November? Or would you rather keep your activity the same?”

Harry reconsidered his options. The Memoirs of Saturnine the Villain had been his chosen recreational activity ever since the start of the sessions. He had no problem with re-reading it. Dianne had even assigned him various essays and reaction papers regarding the series, and Harry had enjoyed writing them and viewing the whole story in a scholarly light. But Harry also wanted to do something else, though he didn’t know what.

“I don’t know?” Harry sighed.

“Do you still feel calm and relax when you read The Memoirs of Saturnine the Villain?” Dianne asked.

“Yes. It’s therapeutic.”

“What makes you hesitant?”

Harry furrowed his brows, “I just... I feel like I should do something else? And not just, you know, reading the same material over and over again?” He shrugged helplessly.

“What do you have in mind, Harry?” She asked. Harry shook his head. “Have you considered going outside? Spending time with nature?”

“I have, but it isn’t plausible at all since I would just ended up being surrounded with people. I hate crowds.”

“Okay,” Dianne nodded in understanding. “What about doing things you once do. What are your hobbies, Harry?”

“Quidditch, used to play seeker,” Harry replied. “But it never really worked well. You know the only time I joined the weekend Quidditch game with the seventh and eighth years was... disaster.”

It was disaster, indeed. The first ever weekly Quidditch match proposed by McGonagall and Hooch Harry was appointed the Seeker by default. He didn’t really mind it at all, Quidditch is still Quidditch even if his enthusiasm on the sport had curtailed after the war. But he didn’t expected to be seized by a panic attack in the middle of the game, so strong he was accidentally hit by a bludger and had blacked out. That was the last time he held a broomstick. Until the thing with Malfoy yesterday happened. Harry internally shook himself out of the fresh memories that assaulted him.

“But,” Harry blurted, before he could help himself. “I tried. I went, um, flying yesterday.”

“You did?” Dianne asked. Harry nodded. “Did you enjoy it? No panic attacks?”

“Surprisingly, I did enjoy it,” Harry said, smiling briefly before he suppressed it. “There’s no panic attack; that’s a relief.”

“And what did you feel? Was it the same as what you felt before when you flew?”

“Yes. It was, uh, nice,” he replied, the picture of Malfoy’s grinning face at the forefront of his mind. “And I, er, flew with someone.”

“Did you take up your friends’ offer to fly again?”

“No, I—” Harry gulped. “He’s not actually a friend.”

“Tell me about it, Harry.”

“It was,” he paused, gathering his thoughts which had been filled once again with the image of a smiling, windswept blushing blond. He scratch his nails futilely against his denim-clad legs to shake himself off his particularly cloying musings. “Um, different. A good kind. But it was shocking, all together. Remember the person I talked to you about before... the person whom I hated my entire school life?”

Dianne nodded. “The person you described as the ‘haughty blond git with an inferiority complex triple the size of a Hippogriff’s dung’?”

Harry bit his lip, a blush of embarrassment heating his face as he nodded. He had talked about his and Draco’s cruel history before, and he was so into the memories and the annoyance they invoked that he might have forgotten who he was talking to. Dianne nodded her head for him to continue.

“He and I... flew together.”

“There was no hexing and fighting up in the air?”

“No,” he snorted. Smiling, he let himself be permeated by yesterday’s memories. “I was surprised that we hadn’t reverted back to being the rivals that we used to before, since Quidditch always brings out our competitiveness. But I should hardly be surprised anymore. He’s not the person that I used to hate and... he was my Potions project partner and helped me a great deal.”

“I’ve heard about the Histrionicus Potions from Professor Severus,” the Mind-Healer said. “So I presumed it went well?”

“Yes,” Harry said, more emotion and meaning lacing the affirmation more than he could permit. “He was there during the Halloween with me. And brought me to my parents’ graveyard.” He wanted to tell her about Draco helping him to sleep but he wanted to keep the moment to himself, something he could treasure secretly.

“You don’t see him as your rival anymore?”

“After what he’d seen, no, I don’t think I would be able to see him as my rival anymore,” Harry said truthfully. It was the most honest thing he’d ever said in a long time. He was surprised by the easiness he felt with the admission.

“What do you think about him, Harry?” Dianne asked after a few moments. Harry looked up at her, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you perhaps believe he can help you with overcoming your emotions?”

Harry fell silent, unable to think of a coherent reply. If he were here two years ago and hear the same question, he would’ve laughed at her face and probably thrown the nearest object in incredulity. But then there was too much that had shifted between them and around them and within them. The war had taught them a lot of lessons, among them are forgiveness and second chances. Harry was in no way justifying Draco’s actions before. Draco was a bully and a bigot, had denigrated Hermione’s blood status and mocked the Weasleys’ financial state. But part of mental maturity was realizing Draco Malfoy was just as victim as everyone else. It was unfortunate of him to grow up in a very unfortunate circumstances. Being a bully, a bigot and a Death Eater were all he really knew, were all what had been taught to him. There had been no other choices for him, just as Harry had no other options as the bloody Chosen One.

And what Draco had been is not really that relevant at all. What mattered is the Draco who realized everything that he had been taught was wrong, and was rectifying the somehow impossibly deeper hole that was dug by his parents by not identifying Harry even under the threat of his and his family’s lives. The moment in the Malfoy Manor—when Draco looked down at his disfigured face and still knowing it was him, his eyes were filled with conflict, fear, anger and a little bit of hope—was important for Draco’s development as his own person. There had been the smallest moment when Harry feared it would be their end, that Draco would be tempted by the prospect of the false glory Lucius promised him by acknowledging Harry. But Draco proved himself that he was not evil after all, that he could make a choice for himself and choose the right thing to do, and the little hope Harry’d seen in Draco’s eyes is the hope he had for Harry to save everyone from Voldemort.

Draco had tormented Harry and his friends for years, but Draco had also been there for him when he needed comfort, baring himself as much as Harry did. And, Harry realized with a staggering force, Draco helped him in ways no one did and no one would ever be able to.

Harry offered a soft smile. “Maybe.”

* * *

It’s hardly Advance Potion. After the kiss and the small realization during the Mind-Healing session, it’s just obvious that Harry wouldn’t be able to keep Draco out of his mind.

The kiss frequented in his mind when he closed his eyes; it was in the fringes of his consciousness when he awoke. It abruptly interlude in his musings, or it would suddenly infiltrate his mind at the middle of conversations. He thought of it when he chewed on the tip of his quill, when he think of the next word for his essay, when he looked up at the charmed ceiling of the Great Hall, when Ron and Hermione ducked their heads and giggle flirtatiously behind the large tome, when he almost stumbled at the trick step that Neville always found himself trapped into. Harry associated the kiss with the mild blasts of the breeze, with the soft trickle of magic, with drinking tea beside the fireplace, with the smell of ink and parchment, with the sound of coquettish giggles and the feel of his silky sheets in his skin. He thought of the kiss in whatever he do and Harry thought he would lose his mind.

It doesn’t help that Draco always found Harry’s eyes even if they weren’t seeking each other’s. Draco would just be scribbling on his parchment and Harry would think of his next move to avoid being checkmated by Ron when they both raised their heads at the exact moment and caught each other’s eyes. Harry always felt the thrum of excitement coiling in his belly whenever he unknowingly turn his head in time with Draco turning to look at his direction and they settle at looking in each other’s eyes. There was a small, furtive smile stretching Draco’s lips and Harry always return the gesture, and he couldn’t help but feel like they were in their own world and the rest around them cease to exist.

Right. It was hardly Advance Potion. It was not too hard to see that he was rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy. Again.

And Harry was afraid. Because the last time he was this obsessed with Draco, it had resulted in him slashing the blond almost to his death. Obsession potentially leads to something nasty and bloody, Harry learnt it the hard way. He wouldn’t be able to stomach the guilt if he would injure Draco beyond repair, or worse, kill him this time. Harry shuddered at the unwanted recollection of Draco spluttering, of his chest sliced open, of water mixing with too many blood.

So Harry denied it. He refused to acknowledge the meaning behind the secretive looks he and Draco shared, the thrill that he felt when they did, and the excessive amounts of daydreaming about the blond. He denied the fact that he is but obsessed with Draco. Even at Ron looking at him as if he’s gone barmy, the “you’re getting a bit obsessed with Malfoy, Harry” palpable in his face. Or even at Hermione’s narrowed eyes and pinched face that evidently tell him “I’m not having any of this again, Harry!”. Even when Ginny and Pansy shared surreptitious giggles behind their cupped hands. He continued to lie to himself and deny the fact that he’s totally obsessed rather than face the truth and bear the aggravating fear of what he might do.

But even the factitious illusion of denial would crumble down at the hands of Gryffindor curiosity. When Harry had pushed his arm through the disarray and higgledy-piggledy inside his trunk, the first object that he laid his palm on was the crumpled piece of parchment. It was the Marauders’ magical map of Hogwarts. Harry felt a tug of grief and sorrow at the object, remembering the fact that Prongs, Padfoot and Moony (he doesn’t really wanna think about the bloody rat) were all dead. He hadn’t touch this memorabilia since after the war. But the morose had been surmounted with curiosity and the familiar anticipation of seeing Draco on the map. Even if they were both inside the same tower, watching (see: spying) Draco’s dot on the map offer a sense of assurance and normality.

The first time he laid in his bed, watching Draco in the Slytherin boys dormitory just across from theirs, pacing in front of his Slytherin cohorts, Ron had snorted.

“Back at it again, mate?”

Harry had been too focused on the slightly moving dot on the map to fling a pillow at his smarmy best friend.

Harry couldn’t resist the compulsion of curiosity when he found Draco missing whole day on a Saturday Hogsmeade weekend. He’d searched the blond in practically every shop in the village, and just when Harry thought Draco was cooped up in the library (because he’s so much a swot to spend his weekend revising rather than going out) with probably Zabini or Parkinson, Harry had seen Draco’s Slytherin chummies in one of the tables of the newly revamped Hog’s Head, sharing cups of butterbeers and laughters and gossips. It was unusual for Draco, Harry mused, to just be left in solitude inside Hogwarts on a Hogsmeade visit. Unless of course he was up to something.

Harry was suddenly back in sixth year again. Draco’s business was not his to know, Harry knew it. And the war was over, no Voldemort to force a sixteen-year-old to pay for his father’s failure, no Dumbledore to assassinate, no Vanishing Cabinet to fix. But Harry was helpless as the alarmingly familiar suspicion tugged at him, urging him to go find Draco and confront him because he was likely doing something that warrant investigation.

Harry was a frazzled ball of unconfined nerves as he gripped the Marauders’ map and trudged along the empty and long corridors of Hogwarts. He had just left the amiable (and inebriated) congregation of eighth and seventh years in the Three Broomsticks, too jittery to sit through and share their drunken revelry. It was just half past midnight, just what Harry needed to venture the hallways without unceremoniously bumping into students as he was too focused on the ceaselessly moving name in the same corridor in front of a wall where Harry had suspected Draco frequented in sixth year.

Draco, on the map, looked like he was hesitating. The dot moved to where Harry had supposed the door to the Room of Requirements appeared but suddenly halted, then pacing agitatedly back and forth, as if he couldn’t make up his mind. When Harry saw him in person, however, Draco was looking worse for wear. He was far from the pristine and aristocratic image he often bear. He was practically juddering with distraught energy, and his shoulders was clearly shaking even at a distance where Harry stood.

“Draco,” Harry called. Draco stopped pacing all together and turned to look at him, eyes wild and face a sickly pallid. For a moment he looked disoriented, but when his eyes moved to what Harry was holding, Draco’s face closed up.

“Potter,” the familiar Malfoy sneer contorted his face. At a different situation, Harry would probably be thrilled at the familiar sight. But Draco’s face showed no signs of the once schoolboy malice. It was all cold daggers and tumultuous incense. “Our very own hero, playing Auror again, eh? Using your magical map to stalk me once more? What do you want from me this time?”

“You were gone for the whole day, I was looking for you,” Harry said neutrally. Draco’s eyes flared and he stepped toward Harry threateningly. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” Draco growled lowly. “What are you doing here? Let me guess: are you afraid that I’m up to something again?” He stepped closer, looming over Harry. Harry tried not to show his guilt, but it was proving difficult as he can’t breathe with their sudden proximity, the kiss suddenly flashing in his mind. “What? You think I’m that stupid to make the same mistake of following orders’ from a madman, like my equally mad father? Or do something crazy like resurrecting Voldemort and gather his followers for a fucking new world order?”

Harry instinctively stepped back at the maddened glint in Draco’s eyes. “Draco. I—”

Draco pulled his sleeves back, brandishing thefading Dark Mark on his left arm. It was still the same horrid ink, contrastingly dark on Draco’s pale skin, but it wasn’t moving. Still, Harry’s breath hitched at the sight.

“Is this what you came here for? To prove to yourself that you’re fucking right at everything? Well, you were. You always were right, Potter. I’m a death eater scum, I pledged my allegiance to the fucking madman to save my own skin, and you were right at your assumptions. Why don’t you slice me again? And this time, you should make sure that I’m going to be killed because Death Eater scums deserve to fucking die.”

“Draco, I’m not... you’re not—”

“What do you take me for, Harry?” Draco said quietly. His broken voice and openly hurt expression pierced through Harry’s heart. “Am I always a Death Eater to you? After everything that—” he stopped short, looking away and pulling his sleeves down. He jutted his chin, fortifying his expression. “Well, it was good to know that some things never change. Like how you always see me as the unworthy scum whom you are forced to deal with, but in reality you were just as well as everyone else. Thank you for making me feel like an utter fool, Potter.”

Harry watched Draco go, and he could feel the pit of shame and self-hatred in his stomach growing bigger. He couldn’t call Draco’s name even if he wanted to because he was choking in his guilty. He had suspected Draco of doing something illegal again, when they had just shared all the precious vulnerable moments and the most wonderful kiss Harry’d ever had. And now Harry felt like he had destroyed something before it even started.

Harry had just cocked everything up.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be updated two weeks ago, but my mind had been in a very ugly place and i lost my inspiration. so this chap contained more than 8k words to compensate for my lack of update.
> 
> thank u for your kudos and comments! i appreciate that y’all like my story. luv u xx
> 
> [TW: this chapter contains past child abuse, neglect, emotional and physical abuse]

The first thing that welcomed Harry when he stepped inside the Great Hall was the fluttering of the owls as they delivered the missives, packages and the Daily Prophet to the awaiting students.

Harry hadn't had a wink of sleep the night before, and he was cranky and frazzled. He was buggered by his and Draco's altercation in the seventh floor corridor last night, tossing and turning and not managing to find a position to settle his fraying nerves. Countless of times his roommates had thrown him a pillow on his face as his grunts and exhales had resonated through the Gryffindor dorm room. He almost had a maddening urge to rip the Marauders' map when he was gripped with the intense longing to see Draco's dot, the same thing that had brought him into this predicament.

It wasn't just the shame and remorse that kept him up. It was Draco's face, contorted with disappointment, rage and open hurt at being accused of something he clearly regretted. It had only been a matter of time before Harry's inherent intrusiveness and penchant for poking his nose to things he's not welcomed would backfire at him. Draco'd done nothing this year to warrant suspicion. He had changed, far from the toffee-nosed, swelled-headed privileged kid of his past, and Harry still found this shockingly disbelieving at times. But the Malfoys recompensed for their actions during the war. More than half of the Malfoy fortune had expropriated by the Ministry, Narcissa was under house arrest and her wand was also confiscated, and Lucius was rotting in Azkaban, serving his remaining sentence for the rest of his life. Though the Ministry decided to let Draco have his Hawthorn wand for his NEWTs (a part of his stipulation), it was more useless than anything since it was heavily monitored by the Ministry. Harry thought Draco was trying harder than most to get by the year with impossible grades that will somehow overrule the mark on his left arm.

It was a testament that Harry has yet to recover from his prejudices. And the past.

With an already upset stomach, Harry flopped in his usual place in the Gryffindor table across from his two best friends. Ron was buttering his toast while Hermione was in the middle of unlatching the rolled Daily Prophet from the leg of the school's barn owl, which was gently nipping at her bushy hair. Harry picked a sausage, mindlessly stabbing it with his fork as his eyes moved along the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables until they settled on the Slytherins', particularly seeking out Draco. He sat upright, shoulders tensed and jaws clenched. He was glaring at his plate as if the food offended him. His Slytherin cohorts who were usually chattering behind their cupped hands about whatever shenanigans they're up to, were now looking grave and staid. They also had their heads down, silently eating their breakfasts, though Bulstrode looked up to sneer at Harry and Nott gave him the two-finger salute. They probably knew what happened between Draco and him last night, Harry sighed.

What surprised and confused him, and probably most of the students closed to the Slytherin table, was when a solemn-looking Snape paused by Draco's side on the way to the Head Table. He gently squeezed Draco's shoulder, and Harry could see Draco minutely relaxed at the gesture, before the Potions Professor swished his robes and resumed walking.

"Everything okay, mate?" Ron asked him, pulling him out of his thoughts. Harry stared at his friend, who was eyeing his mushed sausage piteously. "If you won't—"

"I'll eat it, Ron," Harry said, taking a small bite as Ron shrugged his shoulders. Their attention moved to Hermione when she gasped in shock, a hand on her slightly gaped mouth.

"Oh, another article about Harry again?" Ron snorted, smirking at Harry and reminiscing the article last September where the Prophet had made a particularly intrusive speculation of how long Harry's bits was. Harry flicked a rice at him. "What's it about this time? His favorite flavor of lu—"

"Lucius Malfoy is dead," Hermione said, staring down at the newspaper clutched in her hands. The Great Hall fell in a somber silence as they too were engrossed in the front page. "He was found unconscious in his cell last night. The resident Healer in Azkaban tried to revive him, but he was dead upon arriving at St Mungo's." Hermione frowned, her shocked expression marred with skepticism. "The autopsy report allegedly declared 'heart failure' as the cause of patient's death."

"Not bloody likely," Ron shook his head. "Every Death Eater, prisoned or on the run, had ended up bitten the dust. Reckon there's some vigilantes who take it upon themselves and do them in. Always the same, isn't it? Natural causes?"

"Or it's because there's only so much Dark Magic one can endure," Hermione mused. "Premature death of geriatric causes is not unprecedented when one dabbles with Dark Arts. The longer a witch or wizard trifles with Dark Magic the longer its essence wounds around their Magical Core, thus, weakening it, and by extension, their body cells which exposes the person to terminal diseases. I even read about the Dark Arts speeding up a human's life span..."

"Yeah it could be that, 'Mione. But we don't see Snape dropping dead now, are we?" Ron pointed a fork at her as she pursed her lips. "He's still alive and kicking, unfortunately. Merlin knows how long that man dawdles about sordid practices."

"Of course, it could be that, Ron. But you're suggesting that the Ministry let this self-appointed violence against criminals occur, which very much disregarded the Criminal Reform Act of 1998. I'm sure Shackelbolt won't allow it—"

"But he isn't the whole Ministry," Ron shrugged. "The Ministry's been rotten to the core. It's not surprising if one of them is behind this vigilantism for some funny sense of justice when most of Death Eaters were already rounded up in Azkaban."

Harry supposed it's right. While the Malfoys, or mostly, if not all, the Death Eaters came from multi-generational families that practiced the Dark Arts, it was very unlikely that all the convicted Death Eaters turned up dead with closely identical causes in a short span of time. Harry had seen the inner workings of and interminable corruption in the Ministry; he himself had been demonized and subjected to unfair treatment by the British Wizarding government through the years just for the sake of keeping up their untarnished reputation. Harry wouldn't put it past the Ministry to forgo protocols and went as far as to eradicate the Death Eaters for a self-proclaimed justice, even those who already had a life sentence in Azkaban. There was a startling influx of deaths since the post-war trials, fifteen or so Death Eaters were found dead in their cells by natural causes and those who were allegedly in hiding, like the Yaxleys and Notts, have their bodies thrown in rivers and banks and were later on recovered by the Aurors after an anonymous tip. Lucius' death definitely wasn't an isolated case just like what the Daily Prophet wanted to fool the masses with. Harry can't believe Shackelbolt let this went on for months.

Heads whipped to stare at the Slytherin table, and whispers had risen about the Sunday's issue. Harry stared at Draco. The blond had a letter clutched tightly in his hand and Harry can see from across the hall the tremors in his tensed shoulders. Parkinson was about to lay a hand on his shoulder when Draco abruptly stood up and trudged out of the Great Hall. Harry wasted no time bolting out of his seat. He didn't dare look back to whoever called him, they sounded like a combination of Hermione's and Parkinson's voices.

Draco was standing by the lake, a small stone clutched in his hand and the letter on the other. His eyes were far off and his usual prim posture eluded him. Draco was shut off and Harry doesn't know how to approach him. They just had their bitter fall out last night where he practically implied that Draco was up to something. And now Draco's in bereavement and might think Harry was here to add insult to injury. The last thing Harry wanted is for Draco to feel any more upset than he already was.

Harry was deprived from choosing whether it should be wise to approach or not when Draco started to talk.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" He didn't look at Harry as he swung his arm. The stone skipped on top of the water before it made a gentle plopping sound as it sank down the black lake, making gentle ripples appear on its peaceful surface. Draco's voice was flat and emotionless, making it difficult for Harry to gauge what he felt. For all his Gryffindor bravery, the sight of Draco so closed off made Harry antsy. "Perhaps it's not prudent for you to be here. It might've escaped your awareness but I desire to be in solitude, Potter. I appreciate it if you respect that."

"Of course I do, I'm just here..."

"To taunt me?" Draco asked softly. He was looking up at the heavy clouds overhead. The sharp breeze from the black lake and the oncoming drizzle whipped his blond hair, his cheeks and the tip of his nose tinted pink. "Make me feel like an utter shit? Tell me I deserved to get my father killed? That Lucius deserved what was coming for him?"

Harry stared at Draco's profile, a sudden apprehensive churn settling in his gut. Draco was so near but felt like miles away. He was otherworldly, so ethereal, and it isn't the perfect time to be thinking such thoughts but Draco was so hauntingly beautiful. Always so unreachable. Harry wanted to touch him, comfort him, but he knew it wouldn't be welcomed.

"I knew the feeling of being bereaved of father and I wouldn't wish that to anyone, nor would I think anyone deserved to get their fathers killed," Harry said. His fingers were itching to reach out, clenching and unclenching by his sides. "I'm very sorry, Draco."

"Are you?" Draco turned to him, and the unpleasant churning in his stomach turned to nausea at the look in Draco's eyes. The quicksilver, that Harry always found mesmerizing, turned scathingly cold. "No you're not, Potter. You only say that because of your stupid Gryffindor sensibilities. You hate him, he's a Death Eater. You were glad because he was dead, he deserved it because he was a fucking Death Eater scum."

"No one deserved to die, Draco," Harry said vehemently. "And I'm not saying that because of some sense of Gryffindor righteousness. I said it and stand by it because that's what a decent human should think! He's a criminal, but he doesn't deserved it any more than you and I do."

Draco just stared at him with cool eyes, and Harry stared back with heated determination, green eyes flaring with sincerity and hoping that Draco could see just how much Harry believed that everyone deserves to live no matter what they did during the war. After a few moments, Draco looked away, eyes settling on the tip of a tentacle that undulated the lake's surface. A sliver of tension left Harry, briefly relieved there wasn't going to be any unnecessary argument between them about ethics.

"You knew it was murder." It wasn't a question. Draco turned to look at him, a scowl on his lips.

"It should be something obvious even to someone with mind of an erumpent, Potter. The deaths have been going on for months, there is no viable reason why every Death Eaters in Azkaban turned up dead because of some nitty-gritty illness."

Harry reached out to touch Draco, but he hesitantly stopped halfway. Draco stared down at his hovering hand, so Harry reached for Draco's and held it, slotting his fingers into Draco's soft and aristocratic ones. The remains of his distress bated down when Draco squeezed his hand back in reassurance.

"Mother sent me a heads up last night. She apparently realised father's next in line. Severus helped her strengthen the wards yesterday. I was also heavily prohibited to chance on Hogsmeade. My life has turned so fucking barren and uneventful."

"Last night. You were..." Harry felt the guilt clamping tightly around his throat. How could he be such a prick? Draco apparently knew his father's impending death, and Harry had gone and rudely accosted him. "I'm sorry, I... if I'd known—"

"You're going to heedlessly dive-head-first into reckless trouble again? Confront the murderer like the impulsive cretin that you are?" Draco sneers at him, his hand on Harry's tightening to an iron grip. "Don't be such an idiot, Potter. Even if you're the sodding Savior, and Merlin knows how much you thirst to impose your heroic conducts, but you should not be wasting any of your precious time to Death Eater scums like my father."

"How many times I told you before you—" Harry abruptly stopped, realising what Draco had said prior. "You're in danger."

Draco looked away, tugging at his hand but Harry won't let go. "Stop being an—"

"Look at me, Draco," Harry ordered. Surprisingly, Draco did. "Are you saying they're trying to kill you next?"

"You might've forgotten where we were, Potter. It's the safest place—"

"Yeah? But the Death Eaters had been able to enter, hadn't they?" Harry knew it wasn't the right thing to say as Draco's face closed off once more. He successfully untangled his hand from Harry's.

"Because I let them in, Potter. Surely, your memory isn't so rusty as to forget how you acted like a good little Auror and tracked me down for the rest of the year?"

"Draco, you're in fucking danger. Anyone from the outside could've penetrated the wards, Imperius'd a student, Polyjuice into someone like fucking Barty Crouch Jr.; anything could've happened!" Harry growled. "Hogwarts isn't even the safest place anymore when I've always almost died since I was eleven."

"Maybe because you're a bloody fucking idiot with a crippling sense of hero complex," Draco snarled. "I'm not your charity case, Potter, nor am I a fucking damsel you need to save."

"Draco, please," Harry quietly said, eyeing Draco earnestly. Draco stopped short, glaring down his nose at him.

"Should I put a fucking leash on your neck, then?"

"You can, if that's what it takes to keep you safe."

They looked at each other. Something melted in Draco's eyes, something inexplicable crossed his face before he sharply turned around.

"Let's start the potions."

"What?"

"The project, Potter. We'll going to have to report to Snape tomorrow for our progress last week."

"But you're..." Harry stuttered. "Your father just—"

"I'm not a fucking glass," Draco softly said before he walked away.

* * *

It was middle of Sunday morning when they finished brewing. They had already imbibed the Histrionicus potions respectively and it instantly kicked into effect. Harry could feel the Sedatus flowing in his system, and he felt like the calmest he had ever been in a long time. Turning to his partner though, Harry knew Draco was everything but calm. There's a barely-there flicker of worry that thrums through Harry, simmering beneath the calming thrall of the Sedatus.

Draco had his back to him and he had no way in gauging Draco's expression. He wanted this to work out, without hurting Draco even more now that he's in a much vulnerable state, and Draco's amplified emotion doesn't help. The coloring of Draco's Augmentare Histrionicus had been magenta, and it technically suggested Emotional fluctuation, temperamental, impulsivity, instability. It was all familiar to Harry, he had some serious history with being unpredictable himself, and it was all the more reason to be wary and cautious. But the aggravating thing was, Harry knew for sure, Draco doesn't want others to treat him like he's going to break any moment.

"Draco?" Harry called in as much casual voice he could muster.

Draco turned. He offered a half-smile before cooly saying, "I need to dress you up, Harry. We don't want to be in father's presence with that... rag you call clothes now, do we?"

Um. What?

"Where... what are you..."

"Oh. I forgot to mention, forgive me for my ephemeral memory," Draco said primly and simpered. Harry was horribly reminded of Umbridge and her deliberately condescending giggles in fifth year. "We're going to my father's obsequy."

"What made you think I would like to be in the ceremony?" Harry bluntly asked. There is no way he would want to see Lucius again, even if it's for the last time. He might think the man doesn't deserve to be killed but there are a lot of things Lucius Malfoy did that couldn't be buried with him six feet below the ground. Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say as Draco's feigned pleasant expression fell.

"Well, I might've neglected to inform you too that you have no say in this. You are going with me whether you like it or not, Potter," Draco hissed, a snarl heavily contorting his features. Harry raised his hands to placate him.

"Okay, Draco," Harry tried to make his voice sound as amicable as possible. "I'm just surprised. You haven't informed me beforehand."

Draco's face lost its antagonistic expression as fast as it came, a delighted smile stretching his lips, his grey eyes sparkling with mirth at Harry's easy acquiescence. "I'm glad you're pleasingly agreeable, Harry. We're just going to get rid of this scruffy clothes."

Draco turned and asked the Room of Requirements for a closet full of robes befitting for the gloomy occasion as Harry sighed, resigning to a stilted and awkward afternoon. 

* * *

Narcissa Malfoy met them in front of the huge wrought-iron gate of the Malfoy Manor.

She was as elegant and regale as Harry last seen her during one of the last Death Eater trials. The only indication that the war or her husband's death took a toll on her was the fine lines on the sides of her eyes and lips. Though her smile looked brittle, the warmth in her eyes was enough of a telltale that she was pleased, if not relieved, to see her son personally.

"My Draco," she softly said, welcoming Draco with a hug, which Draco sagged against. Harry drifted his eyes away from the sight, feeling so much like an intruder. "It completely put me at ease to have you here, well and healthy, Draco. Though I suspected you haven't been eating and sleeping sufficiently."

"Of course, I haven't," Draco short of snapped. He exhaled, physically reigning in his temper, and looked apologetic at Narcissa's slightly affronted face. "It's not surprising to have difficulties relaxing amid this...very importunate political affairs. After all, you're all alone here. With only wards away from jeopardy."

"Oh Draco," Narcissa sighed, cupping Draco's face. "I told you not to worry for me. It doesn't do good for your sake and your NEWTs to dwell on things outside of your control. Moreover, Severus put up additional wards that will alert both you and him should I find myself in peril." Narcissa finally turned her cool gaze to Harry, acknowledging his presence. "I was not informed that we would be having a guest."

"Um. Good morning Mrs Malfoy," Harry greeted. Narcissa offered him a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Hello Mr Potter." She turned to look at Draco questioningly.

"Potions Project. The thing I wrote to you about," Draco replied drily. At Narcissa's arched eyebrows, he sighed heavily. "Please cease the queries, mother. My emotions at the moment are not something you want to interest yourself in. Can we proceed already?"

Narcissa's calculating eyes fixed both men with phlegmatic skepticism before she sharply turned and lead the way. Harry's breath evaded his lungs at the sight of the formidable manor. It was like being pulled back into the memory; the iron grip around both his arms as Greyback and the snatchers had pulled him and his friends across the huge lane, the fear that had threatened to overcome him when they were surrounded with Death Eaters who were more than willing to call Voldemort, the panic that rose in his throat when Draco...

There was a warmth that encased his hand and he didn't realised he had closed his eyes as they trudged up the lane towards the manor. He looked to see Draco gazing at him, and he was surprised to see the look of gentle understanding in the other's grey eyes.

"It's okay, Harry," he said, holding Harry close to him. "Don't worry. We're not going inside the manor."

The three of them treaded the manicured path that turns sharply to the side of the manor. Harry exhaled in relief. He doesn't think he would ever feel safe traversing the corridors that were filled with dark shadows and evil memories. They passed overgrown thicket of narcissus and baby's-breath and trimmed bushes, until they reached the small graveyard that probably housed generations of dead Malfoys. Statues of mythical creatures, angels, and gargoyles were erected here and there, wrapped in mosses and tendrils. The cold and mist gave the place a somewhat haunted ambiance, Harry shivered. He had no beautiful recollections of graveyards after all.

The three of them walked the remaining path toward the greying mausoleum. Its wrought-iron gate was already open, the layers of Warming Charm conditioned at the threshold brushing over his chilled body as they made an entrance. There were a few people who attended, and those who filled the pews were Draco's Slytherin friends. All of them bar Snape, with his hooked-nose and jet-black eyes offering them a small derisive curl of lips before looking away, stared at Harry in surprise. Narcissa settled primly in the front row, Draco and Harry followed suit.

Harry lost himself through the motions of the funeral. He had enough of burial rites that he had attended after the war to last him a lifetime. While the appointed vicar preceded the ceremony, Harry stared at the cracks in the walls and ceiling of the mausoleum, counting them in his head. It wasn't until Draco let go of his hand and stood that Harry tuned back to the present. Draco was standing in front of his father's open casket, though he wasn't staring down at it. He stayed there for a few seconds before he briskly sat back down beside Harry.

Harry stared at Draco, seeking out Draco's hand and holding it tight. Draco offered a tight smile before placing his head on Harry's shoulder. That went on for the rest of duration. When Lucius Malfoy's casket was closed, Draco's friends stood up and offered their somber condolences to Draco before walking out. Narcissa didn't stayed too long, kissing Draco's cheek and sharply made her exit, while Snape lingered beside Draco for a couple of minutes, wordless, before clasping Draco's shoulder and also left in a billowing of robes.

Harry was bewildered with the whole affair. While it was clear that the Slytherins have a complicated way of expressing what little emotions they let themselves feel, it doesn't explain why the whole mausoleum during Lucius burial was stiflingly silent. All the funerals Harry had been to post-war were filled with grieving loved ones, weeping and sometimes telling stories in memories of the deceased. Lucius' entombment, however, was a stilted event. Even Narcissa didn't show anything other than the only time she pulled out a handkerchief to wipe at the side of her eye. Draco looked like he was a having a hard time sitting through the brief ceremony and short of wanting to depart all together. While Harry isn't cut out to judge their method of mourning, he couldn't help but feel that the fall and death of the head of the Malfoy household wasn't really a loss to his remaining family.

"Do you want to go home, Draco?" Harry asked gently. Draco made a soft sound before he stood up and straightened some invisible wrinkles on his posh robes. He sniffed, turning up his nose and sneering at his father's casket one last time before he sharply pivoted out of the mausoleum, Harry following closely behind.

Harry thought they would be heading straight outside of the wards to Disapparate back to Hogwarts but Draco clearly has other plans as he led Harry far into the woods at the northern part of the estate, past the overgrown bushes and trees with low hanging branches before coming to a stop by the running stream. Harry instantly knew it was magical as the surface of the water sparkled and glimmered as if being hit with light despite the sun hiding behind grey clouds. There was a grove of canty-colored flowers spreading the expanse of the trimmed lawn they stood upon and a lilting in the air that Harry attributed to the chirping of birds in the early Summer morning despite not seeing any animals on sight.

"This was a place that I thought would be a nice hideout from when father invited his elite friends over. Dobby seemed to be overly fascinated by the nature," Draco said, his voice soft and quiet as if afraid to disturb the magically entrancing ambience that surrounded them. "He used to accompany me here, before father knew about our foolish dallying, that is. We played in the mud like uncivilized louts, Dobby using his magic to build me my childhood-dream castle. I would push him to the creek, and then the odd creature will pretend to drown and I would save him, but not before casting a charm to keep me afloat. In fact, he was the one to teach me how to swim, no matter how barmy that sounded."

Harry walked to his side, putting an arm around Draco and the blond relaxed against his hold, putting his head on Harry's shoulder. Harry's heart was clutched with sorrow at the mention of his tiny friend. No matter how much Dobby aggravated him in second year by his misguided efforts to keep him safe, Dobby was one of his friends who stood by him loyally throughout the years. He lost count of the times Dobby had willingly helped him and his friends, and at the end, the creature had to die saving them. Just like Hedwig, Harry had also tried not to think about Dobby too much after the war because their deaths always caused him severe anguish. Right now, as Draco talked about Dobby almost reverently, sorrow lodged in Harry's throat and find himself suppressing a sob.

"That peculiar little creature, always a pleasant surprise. He'd wanted to be a free elf, even if all the other elves in the manor condemn him for it. You know, if circumstances were so different I would've helped Granger with her campaign for House Elf rights, if that's the only thing I could've done for Dobby," Draco's voice turned wistful as he chuckled wetly. "You're probably gobsmacked how an elitist like me deigned to mingle with a lowlife like a House Elf! Preposterous, but I'm rather taken by his inanities. Dobby's actually my first friend..."

Draco turned to face Harry, his grey eyes sparkling with tears, "Dobby was always going on about how you were so brave, that Harry Potter was a noble hero and that the elves knew of his kind and courageous heart. Dobby knew what father planned and he wanted to warn you about it. But I didn't listen because I could care less about you, though I wanted the creature to do what he wanted. But that only led him to be freed! As selfish as that sound I don't want to lose him. I was so fucking angry at you when you made my father gave him a sock, Harry. Dobby was the only person in the entire world who doesn't expect anything of me and I just... lost him."

Draco's face, though was now wet with tears, suddenly twisted in a violent angry scowl that surprised Harry despite himself. "But I reckon it was Lucius fault. It was always his fault. I lost myself in order to reach his ridiculously high expectations. He taught me to be just like his image; the malevolent, prideful aristocrat, and what did that caused me? I lost the opportunity to be close to the one person I really wanted to befriend. All the Pureblood tripe he taught me at young age had made me into this bigoted and spiteful boy who lost his morals and sense of self-identity.

"I had my whole life ahead of me, so many goals I wanted to achieve, but his senseless kowtowing to the evil madman and overambitious quest for power had took all of my chances to make a name for myself in the Wizarding society. He was my father, and the love that he claimed was the reason why he'd done what he did had just put our whole family to almost peril. And now me and mother had to suffer the aftermath of his farcical ingratiating to a lunatic dark lord and now I'm probably the next to die!"

"You're not going to die, Draco!" Harry was outright crying, and he desperately reached for Draco only for his hand to be slapped away. "The reason why I saved you from Azkaban was because you deserved to be freed. We were desperate children in a war, Draco. We have no choice but to find a way to survive. While your actions weren't so honorable but you don't deserve to be condemned just because of the choices you made under duress! If anyone think otherwise, I'm going to stand in their way and protect you whatever it takes."

"You don't know what you're talking about,

Potter!" Draco raged, eyes almost popping off with burning anger and disdain. "I am a fucking Death Eater, always will be. People will always see the Death Eater, the Malfoy. The mark of Voldemort will forever be held against me. My father had made sure about that. It was his fault why I had to carry this burden and trauma for the rest of my life." Draco seemed to stop crying all of a sudden, his teary eyes glazing over, staring off in the distance. "You know what they did to me all those months, Potter? When Voldemort knew I hadn't managed to kill Dumbledore, he ordered me torture the Muggles in the basement. But I couldn't do that, I couldn't Crucio and kill them even at the threat of my own life. So they punish me in ways to assert my submission. Au-aunt Bella... she would- she would make me do things... like... like assaulting the Muggles or she would make me watch as Greyback feasted on them... Then some from his inner circle... they would... gripped my hair... slammed me to a wall... punched me and slapped me... tortured me... because they thought I deserved it. B-because I was... w-weak..."

Harry was too stunned to react. He hadn't any idea Draco went through something like that. It was because of his horror that he didn't expect Draco to whip out Harry's wand out of his side pocket, a manic frenzy overcoming his dazed expression that frighteningly reminded Harry of Bellatrix Lestrange, and trained it to a squirrel by the tree.

"Draco- no!"

"Crucio!"

There was a tiny pained squeak before the animal was sprawled on the grass, its body uncontrollably shaking under the strength of Draco's curse. Harry tried to shout, but he found his throat was gripped with shock and panic it rendered him speechless and immobile.

"Is your son weak now, father! Am I weak, aunt!" Draco practically shrieked, his eyes alit with feverish glint. He laughed maniacally, his wand moving to the nearby tree, and with a terrifying shout that broke the peaceful air, a green light burst out of its tip. The bark immediately debilitated, turning the trunk into a charred wood as if it was burnt, spreading to its branches, its healthy green leaves wilting and feebly hanging off their sprigs.

"I bet you were rolling on your graves now. Father... Aunt Bella, everyone of you... because I can prove how fucking wrong you were, that your pathetic Dark Lord was wrong! I'm not weak, see? I can cast the Unforgivables! I can torture, I can kill! I can do anything! Because... b-because I'm... I'm s-strong..."

"Draco..." Harry softly called, but Draco trained the wand to his direction, his hand was badly shaking. "Draco, it's okay—"

"Shut up, Potter!" Draco's shrill voice hitched, and even with his snarl his lips were trembling.

"Listen to me, Draco," Harry said, as gently as he could. "Just because you can't cast the Unforgivables doesn't mean you're weak. You were never weak, Draco. You were stronger than most people credit you for, and your strength lies in your realization that everything you knew, everything that was taught to you was wrong. You were strong enough to let go of your skewed ideals, to undo all the indoctrination from your youth, and to better yourself. And that's what matters, Draco. That's what makes a man stronger."

At the end of Harry's speech, Draco's face screwed up with a mixture of uncertainty, fear, sorrow and disbelief. Draco's eyes showed how conflicted he was, the small part of him that had survived and grew up from a detrimental battle was waging war with the greater part of him that was damaged by his childhood. But beneath it, Harry found a sliver of hope. A sob wreaked out of Draco's defeated form as he lowered his hand, his grip loosening until the wand dropped to the grass. Harry pulled Draco into an embrace, and at the barest of touch, heartbreaking cries flowed out of Draco's trembling mouth like the force of water from a broken dam, and it echoed in and tainted the once magically peaceful place.

He pulled Draco closer, hoping that Draco felt safe with him just like how Draco made him felt the safest in a long time. 

* * *

Harry fell limply on his red- and gold-clad bed and groaned when his taut muscles creaked sickeningly. The events that followed Lucius' burial and what happened by the manor's stream were few moments that Harry didn't want to rekindle ever again.

Aside from the fact that the Sedatus takes all of one's mental energy, Harry felt so burnt-out dealing with a person who was very unpredictable and close to being unhinged. Draco had been quiet and subdued when they came back to Hogwarts. But lunch proved to be more strenuous than he could imagine. Draco had been agreeable when Harry suggested they sit with Gryffindors, but he all but switched when they were actually surrounded by Harry's friends. If he wasn't being a total git by ordering Harry to spoon-fed him, he would began giving Ron an earful about proper table etiquette and chastising Hermione for bringing books on the table and for being an "insufferable know-it-all", all while merrily flicking bits of food to Neville's downtrodden face.

When Draco had demanded they move to the Slytherins', it went downhill from there. Within three minutes of sitting down, Draco had managed to anger the usually laidback Zabini and make Bulstrode cry. When he had started flinging crumbs of food to an unsuspecting seventh year, Draco had received a punch to the side of his face, and in the process of moving Draco out of another oncoming fist, Harry was the one who was smacked in the face instead. Draco had become livid at the sight of Harry toppling over, and in his rage, Draco had a burst of accidental magic that hit two nearby fourth years and Theo Nott. In his attempts to resolve the brief altercation, Dumbledore had gently asked Harry to take Draco out of the Great Hall. Draco had taken offense to this dismissal and had went on to a long tirade about the Headmaster's bias against the Slytherin House before making a dramatic exit.

Harry hadn't been safe from Draco's mood swings too. He lost count of how many times he found himself at the end of a wand, which was actually his that Draco stole. The first time he was accidentally hit with a particularly strong Stinging Hex, Draco had bursted into tears in his shock. It went on for a couple of minutes, and he had only stopped to command Harry to back off when Harry had tried to comfort him.

Harry felt a new found appreciation for his best friends' patience during his own angsty and volatile phase back in fifth year. Harry already had a patience for a thread, and if it weren't for the Sedatus, Harry would've already exploded half the castle in his frustration. It was only ten in the evening but Harry was desperate to call it a day.

He was dangling at the edge of consciousness when he heard a soft, tentative voice calling his name from across the room. He blinked his eyes open, and in the dark, he saw a big blob of blur by one of the beds.

"Harry, mate? Are you awake?" It sounded like Neville's voice. Harry stood up and rubbed his eyes before perching his glasses atop his nose.

"I am now," Harry grunted, slightly peeved to be woken up. Neville had a grace to look sheepish.

"Oh, sorry mate. But I think you should head down stares." At Harry's consternation, Neville explained, "It's Draco. He asked for your presence."

"What happened to him?" Harry was awake now, hurrying to put on his slippers but stopped short at the amused smirk on Neville's lips.

"No need to worry, mate. He just wanted to talk to you. And you might want to bring a pillow and a blanket," he added quickly, looking uncharacteristically smug.

Harry wanted to point the series of love marks, prominent even at the dim light of his lumos, on the side of his neck in retaliation but found that his need and curiosity to see Draco won over. He gathered his pillow and blanket before heading downstairs. Draco was sitting in one of the sofas in front of the fireplace. The flame giving off an ember glow to his face, making him look more ethereal and stunningly sharp. Harry stopped for a second to inhale the air that evaded his lungs before sitting down beside him.

Draco's knees were pulled to his chest as he drank what smelt like hot chocolate from his cup before placing it down the coffee table. He looked up and offered Harry a small smile.

"Forgive me for disturbing your peace," he said ruefully. "Merlin knows how much of a nuisance I was the whole day."

"It's okay, Draco," Harry said placatingly but Draco continued on as if not hearing Harry, his shoulders slumped in remorse, eyes cast down to his knees.

"I'm a fucking mess, am I? I caused so much trouble today. You even see me," he paused, clearly uncomfortable recounting what their day had been, "losing myself, which is so unbefitting. I even went so far as to steal your wand to cast... Unforgivables," he whispered the last word in horror, face paling in nausea. "And I dragged you to my father's funereal, which is just so insensitive. Merlin, Harry. I'm so, so sorry—"

"Draco," Harry called quietly, but just as firmly. Draco turned to look at him, his quicksilver eyes were filled with guilt and shame. Harry tucked a few loose strands of wavy locks behind Draco's ear, appreciating how beautiful Draco looked, fucking glowing in the firelight. "It isn't your fault, okay? You were grieving, that's understandable. And you had just drank a potion to augment what you're feeling. Well... the Unforgivables should've been avoided, but it's not as if anyone should know about that."

Draco smiled feebly, though his eyes still held the same look of self-contempt Harry doesn't want to see swimming in those bedazzling grey eyes. He simply hated seeing Draco wallowing in shame over his actions that couldn't be controlled. "And you shouldn't really care if your actions are befitting or not. No one could maintain a proper person in the face of great emotions."

"It's still embarrassing," Draco short of whined, and Harry had to suppress the urge to grin at the picture Draco made, with his lower lip jutting out petulantly. He tried to commit the picture to memory. "I was having a fit in front of half of Hogwarts, Harry. I could never imagine... it was just- and I even attacked my own friends and housemates. What would Severus think of it- well, it was his bloody fault in the first place, anyway. That... overgrown bat! I could never show my face anymore..."

Harry stared at Draco with obvious fondness and amusement as the blond went on his rant. His heart was thumping loudly against his chest, and there was a bubbling feeling of delightful yearning deep in his gut at every twitch in Draco's cute expression. Harry wasn't much of a dunce to not realize that he was very much taken to Draco, desperately so, and if he were being honest, for years now. It was amazing that an occurrence as ordinary as Draco frustratingly talking about his embarrassment could bring this repressed realities on the surface, but then again, there is nothing that Draco do that can be considered ordinary to Harry's eyes.

Draco is that fucking brilliant and Harry very much fancies him.

However, Harry's pleasant expression fell at Draco's next words, "...there's nothing like that in the history of the Malfoys. If my father will hear about..." he faltered, his eyes going wide as if he were shocked by the words that came out of his mouth. There was a heavy silence that dulled the growing delightful air between them.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Harry whispered. Draco's face shut off and his eyes became distant, so Harry hurried to add, "you don't have to if you don't want. I just want you to know that it doesn't do good to keep it in, and I'm here if you want someone to listen." Harry remembered Halloween, when it was his turn to drink the Augmentare, the feeling of being free of the onerous weight of guilt and grief after he allowed himself to cry and feel about it. Draco seemed to think the same.

"My father... had damaged me in more ways I could imagine," he whispered, shoulders hunching as he hugged his knees even closer. "I didn't even knew if he loved me as his son or I was always just the heir, an asset that could serve useful when he saw fit. And being his showpiece proved to be more poignant as there wasn't a single time in my whole life where I was enough for him. I strived so hard to be just like the son he wanted, to be just like him—the perfect, quintessence of a Malfoy. I saw how he commanded the crowd, how polished he was under any circumstances, how adept he was at maneuvering the sociopolitical circles in the Pureblood society. He was a master of emotions, even so much better at emotional manipulation. He was the person that I wanted to become, but in the end, I became the worst parts of him.

"I became cynical, greedy and obsessed with power. I parroted his Pureblood ideals and anti-Muggleborn agenda because it was what father had fed me and father was impeccable in my innocent eyes. And somehow, after all the painstaking process of losing my identity just so I can impress him, he intermittently pushed me back down and destroy the fragile confidence that I used to fortify myself with. The first time I was chained to the dungeon walls was when he saw me playing with Dobby in the mud by the streams. The first time I saw the green light of the Killing Curse was when he executed the crup that I was trying to save from the manor woods. The first time I knew what Cruciatus felt like was when I came second to a Muggleborn. The first time he Imperio'd me was when I refused to take part in the Inquisitorial Squad.

"But I didn't care. Because family pride mattered to me more than anything. You wouldn't understand but it's the reason why most Slytherins followed in the footsteps of their parents because family ideals held so much weight to us more than our morality. And I didn't mind much of Lucius' ruthless drills to bring out the perfect son, because in my innocent mind it was just the right method to instill perfection. Because I believed I was doing it for the family. Because I was hoping that one day, my father would see me like the son that he wanted. So I did every thing that he asked of me. I antagonised you and your friends because he said so. I denounced Muggles and Muggleborns and saw them inferior because he said so. I convinced myself that I wanted to become a Death Eater because he said so.

"But then Voldemort came back. Everything changed as easy as a single flick of a wand. My perfect life turned upside down. My impeccable father had heedlessly groveled to attend to the commands of a Half-blooded madman. My father who was prideful had kissed a monster's hem and cowered in fear. I felt lost, confused; for the first time in my life, I was questioning the things that was supposed to be absolute. And then Lucius failed his task so I had to save my whole family by doing a suicidal mission that intend to kill me and my family. And when I take the mark, I felt like my life had been leading me to it. But I could never be happy, I could never think to make my father proud anymore. Because the life that he promised us had been a lie. That was not the life that I envisioned to live.

"The life under the Dark Lord was cold and cruel. The Death Eaters enjoyed killing and torturing Muggles. I still see Charity Burbage's shadow every now and then, still hear the shrieks of the tortured captives in the dungeons for months. I hated myself when I used to think serving Voldemort was honorable because it was downright vile. They forced me to practice their evil ways, but I just could never do it. No matter how I think Muggles are weak and pathetic, I could never think of hurting them because they're as much human as witches and wizards are. But when I showed a small sign of inhibition, they tortured me instead. They made me watch small children getting tortured or getting ravaged by Greyback. Voldemort's inner circle took turns in using the Cruciatus on me, and sometimes they used Imperius to command me to do... things to the prisoners. There were countless of times Aunt Bella made me watch her torturing my mother, and even Imperio'd me to torture her.

"And father... he never did a thing to prevent it. He was just there, watching as his son and wife was suffering. In the end, even if he was a shell of the man he once was, I knew where his loyalties lain. And even if it took both my life and mother's, he will always choose Voldemort's side."

By the end of Draco's speech, tears were freely cascading down his cheeks, glinting in the nearby firelight. Harry could only offer comfort, hugging Draco closer as the blond clung to him like a lifeline. A tumult of emotions raging inside of him as he heard the heart-wrenching words coming from the blond. He felt so disgusted and enraged at how Draco was treated by his father. Draco had always bragged about the Malfoy clout and the influence of his family, and Harry had always felt it was an ostentatious and superficial display. And it was the truth, Draco intended it to be self-aggrandizing and grandiose to make up for the absence of warmth and love that was lacking from his life. All the my father will hear about this was a manifestation of his insecurities and self-imposed assurance that his father will hear him, even if it was just for the sake of pretenses.

Right then, as they were ensconced by the warmth of the fire and of each other, Harry realised that Draco was more damaged than he let on. Draco had been cruel not just because of his upbringing, but also because cruelty had been the only thing that he'd experienced all his life from the person that he looked up to the most. He had been aggressively self-assertive by being haughty and disdainful to overcompensate his feelings of being inferior to his father. He was filled with hatred and he wasted no time showing it to others because it had been showed to him by the person that was supposed to love him in return. All the problematic things that Draco did to Harry, his friends and other people cannot be justified, but despite the bad things, Draco is not a bad person. He had been a victim of abuse, his father had neglected Draco's welfare for the sake of influence and power and it had been going on for years that Draco developed complexes that had became his defense mechanism.

It all clicked to Harry. He now understood why Draco was being strange upon coming to eight year, why he'd lost his derisive sneers and sharp scowls, why he was oddly docile and agreeable, like a doll programmed to yield at every command. By the things that happened in his childhood and Voldemort's reign in Malfoy manor, it was just expected that he lost all his masks and showed what he truly is; someone who readily submit and acquiesce.

His dysfunctional childhood might be different from Harry's but in a sense, it was damaging all the same. Though the result of the awful experiences from their youths were vastly distinctive, with Harry having an overt sense of justice and Draco being a bully, but Draco was just as damaged as Harry, and Harry had never understood Draco more than at that moment.

"Thank you," Draco whispered some time later. He broke free from the hug to wipe his face, voice was raw and sincere. "For listening and understanding."

"You can come to me anytime you want. I'll be here to, er, listen." Draco stared at him, an inexplicable emotion crossed his eyes, much like the one when they were by the lake. Harry realised their faces were inches away from each other. But he didn't intend to kiss Draco on the lips just after he had bared himself to Harry. So he placed his lips on Draco's forehead instead, a gesture of assurance and respect and understanding. He thought he heard the blond gasp.

"Do you want to sleep?" Harry asked, pink-faced, faces still inches from each other, a thrum of warmth bubbling just beneath his skin. Draco's grey eyes held the brightest and most beautiful constellations he had ever seen.

"What? Here?" Draco incredulously asked. Harry bit his lips, face heating up as he nodded his head.

"Yeah. With me," he gulped when Draco gaped at him. "I mean, if you want to. I have- er, a blanket. And of course, a pillow. If you... want. I'm not—"

"Okay, Harry."

"Okay?"

"Hm."

They transfigured the sofa to make it bigger, and Harry wrapped the blanket around them. The fire in the hearth was smoldered, and they cuddled closer for extra warmth, though Harry didn't need more of it as his insides felt too close to combusting. Draco laid half on top of him, his head on top of his chest and Harry was afraid Draco might hear the thunderous bang of his heart against his chest. He smelt of vanilla with a citrusy blend and Harry loved it, he loved the silky strands that tickled his nostrils.

Draco raised his head, two lovely pink spots high on his cheeks, as he pecked Harry on the lips before snuggling against Harry's neck.

"Good night, Harr y."

"Good night, Draco."

Harry slept relatively fast and smooth, Draco's beautiful face in the forefront of his closed eyes and the remnants of the besotted grin tugging on his lips.


End file.
